


Lord of the Underworld

by Entropyrose



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Forbidden Love, Knight Frank Castle, M/M, Prince Matt Murdock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-18 22:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: Daredevil AU. Sir Francis Castle has been charged with the watch-care of Prince Matthew of Casper, who is regrettably betrothed to the ruthless King Fisk. Frank has resigned himself to never being able to proclaim his love for the Prince, as long as he can be by his side forever. But Matthew's happiness and the security of his kingdom lie in direct conflict with each other. Will Frank proclaim his love before it's too late?Written because I was totally inspired by a beautiful piece of art created by the incredibly talented @itabiadrawshttp://thefratt-ernityhouse.tumblr.com/image/159148779926





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itabia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itabia/gifts), [Pluralis Majestatis (Funkneto)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Pluralis+Majestatis+%28Funkneto%29).



> Not at all my usual. You fluff-mongers have gotten the best of me. This is pure sugar.
> 
> *CHAPTER ONE DOES NOT INCLUDE THE SCENE FROM THE PICTURE! As soon as it is added, I will add a note so people know when to look for it :)
> 
> Beta'd by the amazing, talented and lovely Dragonspell

The thick blade of an ax goes sailing past his head, colliding with the wall behind him. It explodes into powdery shrapnel that hits his face even as he evades it, sending splinters a rubble into his eyes. “Stop, stop!” His voice echoes in the vaulted chamber and he claws at the debris with a free hand while wildly brandishing his sword, out into the open space in front of himself. His sword is easily swept aside as a hard body connects with his. A bent elbow to the throat of his assailant is the only thing stopping him from being completely flattened to the stone wall.

“Would a Knight of Athonis _stop_?,” comes the gruff reply as his elbow is jerked roughly away. The ax is yanked from its place, sending more rocks tumbling down after. “Would a highwayman or a rouge take pity on my Prince? How about an Lutainian solider? Would he show you mercy?”

Matthew’s eyes sting with the grainy assault. He tries in vain to blink them away, returning his thoughts to the blade in his hand. He sends it straight forward with a battle-cry and it finds the fleshy part under the man’s ribs, earning him a pained grunt. Matthew grins. The sword is made of wood, but that will do little to stop a nice bruise from forming. “You’re dead,” he announces.

A booted foot swings underneath his shin and soon he is crashing to the floor. “Not yet,” says the man above him. “You delivered a killing blow, but not one that is instantly fatal. I would have yet another three minutes or so to do what I wanted with you.”

Matthew’s smile quirks upward as his hand finds an adequately-sized rock. He tilts his head upward toward the sound of heavy breathing. “And what would my brave Knight want to do with me?” He hurls the rock and cares little where it lands--the surprised cry that echoes from the man’s throat is reward enough, and affords him the time he needs to gain ground and slip behind a pillar. Only slightly problematic is having left his sword on the ground.

“You are unarmed,” The Knight says. He steps on the end of the sword and it launches upward and into his skillful hand. Matthew listens to the sound his leather gloves make as it grips the hilt and he stalks him, loose gravel crunching under the thick soles of his shoes. “I have your weapon and you have nowhere to run.”

Matthew darts quickly around another pillar, sending up a silent prayer to the gods that they will forgive him if the Knight’s powerful blows should strike one of the precious facades. He faces left, across the hall, throwing his voice as he says, “You sound so sure of yourself, Knight.”

He hears Frank’s feet against the ground as he turns towards the sound and swings in as silently as a shadow. He steals the sword out of his mentor’s hands as he doubles back, but it’s too late, the wooden blade is at his throat. “Besides,” Matthew adds breathlessly, angling the weapon as it slides across the Knight’s jugular. “Who says I was running?”

He feels the man’s eyes staring him down. A warm puff of breath lands on his cheekbone as he inhales as if to say something, mouth dropped open.

A single pair of hands clapping sounds like a thousand in the reverberating chamber. Matthew turns his head toward it, lowering his sword. A towering man strides forward, his clapping slowing until it stops, his eyes fixated on the scene. “Excellant. That was quite a performance, wouldn’t you agree, Knight?”

“King Fisk,” Matthew murmurs with an icy nod. He is not particularly fond of his betrothed, though very few arranged unions are anything to celebrate. A low growl emanates from the man behind him. A massive hand swipes a tendril of hair out from his eyes and tucks it securely behind his ear.

“It’s a pity to see you with this creature,” Fisk murmurs possessively. He slides in, effectively forcing the Knight to step back, though he hesitates before moving. “It seems he always manages to get you filthy.” He sweeps away the crumbs from the fine velvet brocade of his tunic and wipes away a smudge of silt from his face. Matthew blinks a few times, the tears washing away any remnant of granules from the wall.

“He must learn to defend himself,” Frank grunts, turning back towards the discarded weapons. He picks them up, placing them back in their brackets.

Fisk lets out an indignant huff. “And he does so with a child’s playtoy whilst you use a piece of forged, sharpened metal? Hardly seems like a fair fight.”

“Fights are rarely fair.”

“I don’t mind,” Matthew interjects.“Sir Francis is our Kingdom’s most highly skilled warrior. He would never place me in immediate danger. And besides… he is a good friend.” He reaches out for the pillar beside himl but finds a warm, open hand waiting for it instead. He fights the urge to pull away, instead placing his hand in the one offered and forcing a light smile.

“He is capable of walking without assistance,” Frank growls.

“Perhaps only because you’ve never offered.”

Matthew feels Fisk’s eyes leveling at the dark Knight’s and quickly pulls him away towards the door. “I nearly forgot! I haven’t shown you the West Garden yet.”

“Ah,” Fisk murmurs, the towering man’s voice lilting with sincere interest.

“The Oak Trees are taller than the tallest portcullis.” Frank’s eyes remain plastered to Matthew’s back as they stroll down the hallway. He follows, at a distance, and Matthew wonders to himself how long he can keep his fiancee and his personal guard from ripping each other’s throats out.

* * * * *

At first, Sir Francis Castle was less than thrilled at the prospect of training the little Prince. He was still a young man himself, only twenty-three when the “great honor” of being the personal guard to the heir of the Throne of Casper. He was the youngest Knight to ever have such an honor bestowed upon him; a decorated war veteran and Knight from the age of 12, Frank had hoped for a few more glorious battles before settling down into early retirement. But to turn down such a magnanimous offer would not only have been unheard of, it may very well have been punishable by death.

Francis was quite sure he had never met such an entitled, spoiled brat. Prince Matthew may have been generous and kind to his subjects, but he seemed to take all his frustrations out on Sir Francis and what he called his “pointless lessons”.

But Frank had seen the atrocities and realities of war. Prince Matthew’s blindness would not earn him the gentle mercies that court life had accustomed him to outside the castle walls. It was a weakness that would be exploited at the earliest opportunity by a conquering King or rebels who managed to thwart Casper’s entire army. It was unlikely. But “unlikely” did not mean “impossible”, and Frank’s duty was to ready the budding Prince for any challenge that could come.

He was a quick learner, which hadn't  surprised Frank nearly as much as Matthew’s fervor to train. Once a weapon was in-hand, Prince Matthew came alive, the anger and frustration he wasn’t allowed to feel outside the ring becoming an unquenchable fire. He was merciless with his attacks and often left his mentor having to stitch himself back together. He was ferocious and exact and at times would have put Frank to shame had he not been so proud to call him his Student.

Through it all, Matthew grew into a charming, well-versed youth with taut muscle and milky skin and long legs and Frank found himself jealous of the many courtiers, both men and women, who sought his Prince’s affections. Nothing could ever come of it. Francis was a Knight, born of simple farmers. He had earned his rank through blood and battle and through depositing the heads of enemy Generals at Matthew’s father’s feet. That didn’t stop him from daydreaming. If all he could ever do was to be by his Prince’s side as he fell asleep, it would be enough. It would have to be.

Now, the Prince was twenty-two and his Father seemed fit to marry him off to some bull-shaped tyrant of a King, all for the sake of a ten-mile stretch of land along Casper’s southern border. Fisk had threatened invasion. No amount of pleading with Matthew’s father the King had done him any good: Frank and his warriors could have set up a blockade that would have effectively stopped any and all attempts from succeeding. The King of Casper seemed content to sign away the life of his son in exchange for a flimsy peace treaty (since when did King Fisk obey treaties?) and the promise of open trade routes (a promise riddled with lies, no doubt.)

And Matthew, ever the faithful son, had gone along with his father’s command.

Now Frank is staring at the back of the leader of an enemy nation, entertaining his thoughts with the many ways he could dispatch the detestable man and rid himself and his prince of ever having to deal with that smug smile ever again.

It is late Spring, and the fruit has just begun to hang from the branches. Matthew reaches towards a budding pear and brings it to his nose, grinning upon inhale. “You can actually smell the tartness.” Fisk does the same, his thick neck sticking out from the collar of his tunic like the trunk of an oak tree. The hand closest to Frank’s dagger, hidden securely beneath his heavy leather overcoat, itches for its touch. Fisk smiles at Matthew, it seems almost genuine, and that makes Frank’s nostrils flare.

Almost as if he could hear the air escaping, Fisk’s eyes slam towards Frank and his features contort in a dark grimace. His voice, however, is still smooth as silk as he dips his head down to Matthew’s ear and whispers, “You can send your babysitter away, you know. I will not bite.” With a widening grin, he adds, “Unless of course you wish me to.”

Frank’s eyes burn into Fisk’s.

Matthew lets out a shuddering, nervous laugh, his back stiffening a little, and Frank vows to himself that if Fisk so much as touches the rim of his highness’ crown he’s going to introduce his bowels to daylight. “He is my personal guard,” Matthew murmurs. “It is his sworn duty to protect me.”

Fisk gestures to the air (the idiot. As if the Prince could *see* his gesture). “There are no threats here, your highness. Nor will there ever be. My kingdom has armies as far as the eye can see, and five times as many on the water. The rest of your days will be lived out in only the finest of comforts. And if my subjects love you half as much as I have come to, they will die protecting your every desire.” His lips curl around the back of Matthew’s hand, and Frank’s hand curls around the dagger.

Matthew pulls away slightly, a healthy blush resting on his cheeks. “Y-your words flatter me, my Lord.” He nods dutifully before shifting away. As if a light has flickered on above his head, he points a finger to the sky and resumes his walk down the lush garden path. “The lilacs! You really _must_ smell the lilacs. They are in full bloom.”

Frank cannot help the grin that eeks out, even as the King flashes him a threatening glare over his shoulder. His dagger will stay at his side...for now.

* * * * *

A masquerade is a silly notion to a blind Prince. But Matthew knows it brings joy to his subjects and even to his father (who is a very good dancer, so he’s been told). The one joy it does afford him is the ability to wear a mask, which filters the light and is very forgiving on his unequal gaze. “I wish you would pick something less drastic,” his father muses. Matt lifts the brocade silk from its place among the other fine pieces of cloth and holds it to his body. It is thin and filmy and conforms to every contour. He wonders if Frank will like it...the thought flashes through his mind before he can stop it. Heat rushes to his face and he tries to swipe it away before his father can see.

“What color is it?” He asks. Matthew can remember color--he has tried in vain to experience color again, in new form--tried to feel it, to hear it, to taste it, to no avail. Some colors are darker than others, and he can detect the differences sometimes, by the warmth of the sun as it sinks into them.

“A garish red,” his father answers.

Matthew smiles: his father is using unnecessarily harsh terms to describe what is easily his least favorite color. It matters little.

Years ago, Matthew had gone swimming while his grumpy bodyguard stood watch. The Princess of Falraven had been visiting on a diplomatic excursion and Matthew had been more than happy to escort her to the beautiful Lake Curdoy,  which he had personally thought of as the fifth wonder of Casper. The Princess giggled when she caught Sir Francis staring their way. “I’m so sorry, “ Matthew had said,  apologizing for his Knight’s indiscretion.

“For what? “ The Princess had said. “He hasn't bothered to look my way twice. I wish he would bother.  His eyes are planted on you.” Matthew caught the inference and felt his veins freeze to ice.

“W-Well,  he is my personal--”

“Oh, pish! “ She slapped the water dismissively. “Surely you have noticed?”

Matthew blinked. “Noticed what?“

“He looks upon you as if you are the only person in the world. Surely even _you_ can see that, your Highness.”

Matthew turned his head in the direction of his silent sentinel, gazing at him across the water with a blank expression.

He was not blind to Fisk’s cruelty. But perhaps in time, despite the man's cold demeanor and disregard for the life of commoners, he could learn to tolerate if not love him. The thought should comfort him, but it does little more than awaken the tendril of disdain that slowly unfurls inside. He clutches the garment a little tighter, running his fingers along the intricate pattern that scrolls down the sleeve before letting it drift back to the pile with a heavy sigh.

“I know you hate me for this arrangement,” His father murmurs.

“I don’t hate you,” Matthew replies softly. There is little choice--Fisk has been threatening to invade for well over a year by now, and it seems an obvious choice to the solution.

“Francis approached me,” he continues while his tailors fuss about, the air filling with the sound of fluttering fabric and snipping scissors. Matthew tries his best to act only slightly interested as he continues on to the grouping of beads and feathers, sinking a hand down into the cool touch of pearls and picking a long strand out. “He volunteered his finest men to travel to our southernmost border and defend the lines.”

Matthew frowns, but remains cautiously silent as he drapes a thick ribbon around his eyes, testing the feel. They still carry the slightest sting from the debris off the wall. He follows the slope of his nose covered in the heavy satin. He plucks two quills from their place among the pile and slides one in on either side of his face.

“Should I have let him?”

“No,” Matthew answers, probably more quickly than he should. His father doesn’t add the fact that Sir Francis would ride into certain death, into the thick of the battle with his men, and he doesn’t have to. “His place is at my side. Besides, there is little point to risking the casualties.”

“That is what I thought you would say.”

Matthew turns in his makeshift mask, turning the edges of the ribbon inward and tying it securely around his head.  “What do you think? Will His Majesty approve?”

His father lets out an incredulous snort. “A demon? You wish to attend the masque as a demon?”

“No, of course not,” Matthew chides with an impish grin. He strikes a statuesque pose, slipping one hand behind his head and cocking a hip. “I am Cernunnos.”

* * * * *

Fisk has had his eye on Casper for years, now.

Casperian hospitality is second-to-none for a reason. They are not the richest kingdom, nor are they the biggest, but what they lack for in wealth and size they make up for in showmanship. The entire castle is packed with every kind of wonder imaginable--the Great Hall is filled with water--pumped in from Curdoy Lake, he presumes, and set ablaze with some kind of flammable liquid on its surface. It is decorated with miniature boats where actors play out the Great Naval Battle of 1124.  

Servants are painted as the 44 Casperian gods (such a quaint-minded people) and an array of fruits and desserts such as the King himself has never seen are set out on thick curtains of finely woven gold. The courtiers here wear garments with fabric that goes on for miles. Everyone is laughing and rejoicing and happy, as they should be.

Their King made a wise decision. A decision that spared their simple little souls and served to solidify King Fisk’s claim to the Casperian throne. Prince Matthew seems an impressionable young thing--it will not take much for Fisk to connive him out of signing away his lands. Sharing a bed with the young, long-legged redhead is only a bonus.

“You are an absolute vision,” he murmurs, sliding in amongst the crowd of courtiers to bend low to Matthew’s ear. The sulking bodyguard seems nowhere around for once--probably taking advantage of a court full of armed Knights to take a much-needed night off. Fisk plans on taking full advantage. He sweeps his hand down Matthew’s thinly clothed spine to cup the small of his back, secretly reveling in the slight gasp it produces. The Prince stiffens and whirls in the half-circle of his arm, that perfectly pouty mouth parted in surprise.

“How did you..? “

Fisk raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Is it meant to be a secret? You are the first heavenly being I’ve spotted...and certainly the most devine.”

“Madame Drefeu came dressed as an angel,” Matthew helps.

Fisk casts his gaze across at the aging widow with a circlet of gold as she throws her head back and laughs among her gaggle of friends. “Hmm...bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

Matthew stifles a snicker under a gloved hand. “Ooh, that is harsh, my Lord.”

“The truth is not always kind.”

The Prince makes a motion with his head that tells Fisk he is rolling his eyes under the mask. “Now you sound like Sir Francis.”

Fisk furrows his brow, his bitter retort interrupted by an eruption of fireworks. The Prince jumps backwards as the crowd claps and cheers, pressing himself further into the towering King’s touch.

“My apologies,” He murmurs, pulling away. “I was just surpri--”

“No.” Fisk’s nostrils flare and the sweet sting of pleasure rockets through him. He shoves it down, forcing his base urges back under his control, and stretches a smile across his face, knowing it will carry through in his voice. “No,” he repeats, softly this time, flicking his thumb across the dip of his spine. “My arms are forever yours to jump into, my Prince.” He dips into a reverent bow, pressing the back of Matthew’s hand to his forehead.

* * * * *

“You’re still alive.” The deep voice behind him can belong to only one man. Frank doesn’t bother turning around, choosing instead to take another swig of mead as he stares over the railing at the swarm of masqueraders. He hands the decanter off, and Luke accepts, taking a leisurely drink before adding, “I can only assume that means you haven’t slain the bastard yet.”

Frank doesn’t answer, his eyes steeled on the scene below. He grabs the drink back and takes another gulp before dragging his sleeve across his mouth.

“Can you imagine having to swear fealty to an Oppressor like him?”

“I’ve been trying not to,” Frank growls. “But thank you for bringing it up.”

Luke rests a hand on the hilt of his sword. “We are ready,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper as he leans in. “You need but to give the command.”

“I cannot risk it.” Frank has thought about this many times over--he has explored every viable option and comes up empty every time. Assassination of a monarch is punishable by drawing and quartering, a death which Frank would gladly accept, if only he could guarantee his Prince’s permanent safety in return. But Lutania is a vast kingdom filled with hardened, unsensible people and they would surely declare war if their King was found dead in some discarded sector of a Casperian alleyway or even came up missing altogether.

His train of thought is interrupted when the Prince is dragged to the center of the Great Hall by the gaudily clad ox and the Lutanian Waltz begins to play. The meade in his stomach curdles at the sight. He bites his lip until he draws blood, then hops off the stone banister and pushes past his fellow Knight.

“Where are you going?”

“I might not be able to save the Prince from marrying that jester of a King, but I can save him the embarrassment of having to dance with him.”  He trots down the winding staircase, disappearing into the sea of fabric and feathers.

“Going to get himself killed,” he hears Luke murmur behind him.

“Something has come up,” Frank interjects moments later, grabbing Matthew’s hand and pulling him so hard out of the circle of twirling courtiers that it knocks his horns off-balance. He ignores the stifled growl from the towering King and forsakes him to the crowd. It is so thick, there is little concern of him following. This is not his land--he could no sooner order them to stop than he could hold back the rising tide.

“Frank--!” In his shock, the Prince forsakes decorum and nearly wriggles his hand free. Frank clamps down tighter with a firm yank, leading him through a corridor on the other end of the hall. “What--what are you _doing_?” His usually pleasant voice is harsh in Frank’s ear as they bump and brush their way out into the courtyard.

The frozen midnight air hits them, and it’s a welcome relief from the melting oven of the gathering inside. Frank scales a few stories of winding staircases, to the highest parapet of the castle before finally releasing him. Matthew flings Frank’s hand at him and stalks to the overlook, flattening both palms against the stone wall and sticking his face into the chilly breeze.  


“You just earned yourself thirty two lashes and a formal reprimand,” Matthew growls.

Frank absentmindedly brushes the dust from his boots with a bare hand before coming to stand beside his Prince. “I know.”

“My father--my father is going to have you court-martialed!”

“Probably.”

“King Fisk is going to demand punishment!”

“Yes.”

“Is that all you have to say? You’re not going to tell me why you--you pulled me away like that?”

Frank shrugs, sliding back against the cool stone with his hands clasped patiently together. “I should think it was worth it, to save you from one more second of that filthy beast’s hand upon your back.”

Matthew lets out an indignant huff, his face still straight against the wind, and nods. “So you _were_ watching.”

“My Prince,” Frank murmurs, “I am always watching.”

“I know,” Matthew replies softly. He unfastens the ribbon from around his head, the cloudy brown-grey of his damaged eyes shimmering like pearls in the reflection of the torch light. “But you will have to come to terms with this new arrangement, just as I have.”

Frank’s eyes flash, the knot in his stomach returning as he carefully prepares his answer. No longer will he be sharing a bedroom with his Majesty-rather he will be sent to guard the door just outside, and any stifled noises that come from the room will have to be disregarded, blow by blow. Frank hasn't been afraid of anything in his forty years, but something akin to it now stirs inside. Desperation takes hold and he dates to reach over, touching just the hem of the Prince’s filmy tunic. “Let me take my men to the South Border. We can have it secured in less than a fortnight. You don’t have to do this, majesty. We...we don't have to do this.”

Matthew turns at last in Frank’s direction, the wind stirring up tendrils of his reddish hair as they dance around his cheekbones. He has taken on an otherworldly glow, bathed in yellow light, swathed in a blood-red tunic with horns atop his head.  _Cernunnos_ , god of the underworld come to life. “Yes we do. And we will. Casper loses nothing by this one small sacrifice, and--”

“Small? You call this _small?_ ” Frank has to bite back the word, shielding his voice from becoming so loud it rattles the fixtures on the rampart. “You--you realize what that brute of a pig will do, do you not? He will have his way with you, _repeatedly,_ before taking this entire country by storm. Is that what you want? To simply delay the inevitable?”

Matthew’s expression hardens, his eyes flashing like shards of ice. “You will not address me so informally,” he warns.

“I will address you in any matter it takes to send the clear message through your thick skull, _your Highness._ If you do not let my men secure that border--if you go through with this--”

“Enough,” Matthew barks, sending a fist down on the stone. “What did you expect was to happen? If it were not Fisk, it would have eventually been another. Perhaps the Princess of Falraven, or Prince Joadath.”

“Anyone is preferable to that paunchy skut.”

Matthew throws his head back and laughs, his voice reaching high into the air, like a violin. “Sir Francis!” he chides. “You’re being a bit boorish, don’t you think?”

“Don’t care,” Frank huffs under his breath, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively.

“Are you pouting?” Matthew sweeps his long fingers across his face, fluttering over Frank’s pursed mouth. “You are! The brave Sir Francis, Fearless Render of Skulls, is pouting.”

“Not _pouting_ ,” he growls. It only serves to make the Prince laugh harder, and Frank scowls in response. Matthew’s hand stays awhile longer, flattening his palm to the side of Frank’s face as his eyes fluttered closed. “My Prince,” he murmurs, gently pushing it away. “Don’t.” The thrumming of booted feet along the stone walkway prick up both their ears, and Frank pulls Matthew quickly down the parapet, into the secure shadow of a mighty pillar.

* * * * *

Matthew sniffs the air--it's even colder here, the wind swirling around them as silence fills the moment. Matthew’s hand falls away obediently, but follows the line of Frank’s leather tunic down his broad chest, to his arm, to the leather gauntlet tied around his wrist, until his fingers alight on the skin of his hand. With a feather-light touch he traces an old scar that curls into the shape of a half-moon around his thumb. The older man lets out a shuddering breath too quiet for normal ears to catch, his heart thudding in his chest. Matthew ignores the heat that rises to his face and lifts his eyes as if he could stare straight through him. “Why did you steal me away, Frank?” The pounding of his own heart drowns out his words.

Frank pulls his hand away at the same time he turns his head towards the wind. The scent of leather hits Matthew's nostrils. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”

Matthew’s heart sinks a little, his fingers returning to absentmindedly fidget with the mask. “You-you were. You did. Thank you.” He lifts the thick ribbon to his eyes once more, tying it around his head and tugging it below his eyes. “But a Prince never runs from his duties. And mine has not yet been fulfilled tonight.”

A scrap of the filmy cloth sweeps against Frank’s shoulder as Matthew holds his hand out along the wall, finding the heavy wooden door that will lead him back down to the Great Hall.

“M-my Prince--”

“I am perfectly capable of finding my way,” he says sharply before throwing open the door and disappearing down the winding staircase.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank is given an offer he cannot refuse. Literally. Matthew doesn't like it.

Sir Francis is going to be a *problem*. But hardly one that King Fisk cannot solve--he prides himself on his mastery of puzzles, and this seems an easy task.

“Where did my son go off to?,” The KIng of Casper mutters into his ale.

Fisk pats him gently on the shoulder. “I have sent my footmen to fetch him. They will be along shortly.” Not moments after uttering the words, Prince Matthew strides in, two men clad in dark green following closely behind. The way parts easily, for now there is no doubt who Dionysis’ true identity is, courtiers hauling their dance and bowing low as he passes. “He truly is a vision,” he adds absentmindedly, admiring the way his body moves barely masked by the flowing red gauze as he ascends the steps and slips into his seat between the two Kings.

“Where did your sulking Knight run off to, after accosting you so obscenely?”

“Rest assured, he will not go unrewarded for his vile behavior!" His father intervenes.

Matthew lets out a sharp sigh before running his hand along the table, his fingers finding the goblet in front of him and plucking it from its place. This, King Fisk admires as well--one nearly forgets the Prince’s blindness for the effortless way he moves, like a carefully choreographed dance. “There is no need,” Matthew murmurs. His voice lilts with feigned disinterest. “It was hardly an inconvenience. There was something urgent that needed tending to, and Sir Francis alerted me to it. The matter is done." 

Fisk bites the inner skin of his lip, dragging his tongue across the spot. His mouth curves into a tight smile as he gently pets Matthew’s shoulder. Matthew flinches slightly, moving away on instinct at the foreign touch. “Apologies,” Fisk murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “If the Prince is so inclined to withdraw from his fiancee’s touch, perhaps negotiations between our two lands--”

“NO,” Matthew barks out quickly. “Please don’t misunderstand, my Lord. I am…”--he blows out a shuddering breath-- “...just as eager to solidify our borders as you. It was the touch that started me is all, not its source.”

“I see.” Fisk relaxes back, studying the slight twitch in the Prince’s face as he flexes his jaw. “What shall we do, my love?” He moves in closer, ignoring the indignant grumble coming from the other King, hips lips hovering so close to Matthew’s ear he can feel his own breath warm upon it. “To prepare you for the many touches to come?”

He delights in the quick gasp that the Prince fails to hide as he slams back into his chair. “Excuse me,” he murmurs. He moves to stand, but Fisk holds his hand in an iron grasp.

“Stay,” he hisses. “I was just about to make an announcement in your honor.”

“M-My Lord, there is no need to--”

“Good people!” Fisks’s voice booms over the great hall, reverberating against the carved rock and halting every ear it touches. Matthew slides down hesitantly into his seat as the King resumes. “You have humbled me with your hospitality and your splendor. It is a Lutanian custom that we return the favor. Sir Aleksei?”

The man stepping forward earns gasps and whispers that skitter through the crowd. He is a hulking beast of a man--towering even over Kin,g Fisk himself, clad in grey chain mail and a suit of thick leather. He wears a tight grimace over his face. Matthew turns Fisk’s way with a questioning look, and it is clear he is holding his breath.

“Sir Aleskei is my personal friend and most loyal subject. He has fought and won hundreds of battles in his thirty-seven years as Commander of the Lutanian forces and has brought back the head of Kings and Generals alike.”

“S-Sir Aleskei,” Matthew murmurs in customary recognition with a solemn nod. It is obvious his senses will not allow him to get a clear hold on the exact size of the man, and that suits Fisk just fine. Perhaps it is for the best, considering the task he is about to set the Knight to.

“I wonder, my friend, if you would be willing to once again take up arms for your King?”

Aleskei bows as Matthew turns to his father, pulling on the sleeve of his tunic. Fisk hears him murmur in a hushed, desperate tone, “Father, what is he--?”

“Hush, boy.” The King of Casper pats his hand dismissively, his mouth pursed and his eyes fixed warningly on Fisk.

“Whatever your Majesty desires,” the towering Knight bellows with a theatrical bow.

Fisk practically beams. “Excellant. You shall challenge Sir Francis to a fight.”

Matthew springs forward out of his chair, slapping both hands down on the heavy wooden table as he rises. “No!”

“Matthew--” his father interjects.

“No. I will not allow it!”

Fisk raises an eyebrow as a ripple of murmurs spreads over the crowd. “My dear Prince, are you quite sure you want to make such a decision so brashly--?”

“I understand your...fervor...in wishing to repay our kindnesses, my Lord. I truly am grateful for it. But my personal guard is not at the disposal of the court for the sake of games.”

“Games?” Fisk feels a ripple of rage course through him and he swallows sharply, shoving it down deep. “I can assure you, your Highness, this is nothing of the sort.”

Now it is the King’s turn to rise from his place, putting a steady hand on his son’s shoulder and pushing him slightly aside. “Forgive my son, your Greatness. He is had too much ale, and--”

“What would you ask me?” A new voice now enters the discussion from the floor. The mountainous warrior shuffles aside as Frank slips past, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Frank--Francis,” Matthew corrects himself, all too late. “Your services are not required presently. See to your Officers. That is a command.” The poor little Prince is trying desperately to be such a brave soul, straightening his back where he stands to resume the proper stance of a royal.

“I mean to challenge you to a duel, little man.” The grey Knight draws his sword and the crowd gasps, shuffling backwards with started yelps from some of the women. He levels the blade of his claymore across Frank’s jugular. “For the honor of my King and the Glory of Lutania!”

If Sir Francis (Or, Frank, apparently, as Prince Matthew calls him) is afraid, his eyes do not show it, his expression steady and poised. His gaze scales the height of the beast, leveling finally with his eyes. “You are certain you want to do this?”

The Knight blinks, a throaty chuckle emanating from his chest as he stares incredulously back at him. “Of course.”

“I wasn’t asking you.” Frank’s gaze crosses the distance to the King that stands beside his Prince, a dangerous glare flickering behind them.

His first inclination is to order the death of the mouthy knave right then and there--but Fisk is nothing if not a patient man, and there is little need to paint himself as a totalitarian when the same end could be met by the tip of his loyal guardsman’s sword. “Perhaps you are concerned your chances of winning such a feat are slim?” Fisk offers. “It’s true, Sir Aleskei is a legendary warrior. And you, having been a mere mentor for so many years would seem to have a disadvantage...perhaps you are out of practice?”

“Sir Francis,” Matthew murmurs, his voice shadowed by quiet desperation, “You do not have to do this. You will be no less revered if you stand down. The good King speaks out of turn. He is not used to Casperian customs. He is obviously unaware we do not pit our finest warriors against each other for the sake of entertainment.”

“My Prince,” Frank replies, bending a knee. “I am a Knight and your servant, first and foremost. It would be my honor to accept this challenge--” The members of the crowd brave enough to gather closer now spark up in hushed murmurs, and King Fisk claps his hands suddenly, cutting off Frank’s words.

“Excellent! The duel will begin promptly at sunrise then.”

“Sunrise?!” Even the King of Casper has drawn close to his wit’s end, pushing aside his son to stand face-to-face with Fisk. The hopeless man sees the fate before him and smartly stands down, gathering what little remains of his dignity and giving his son’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Sunrise. Of course.” He nods in the princely fashion of a man who knows he’s been bested, and slips into his seat.

Fisk strains to make out Matthew's murmurings as he jams his mouth towards his father’s ear, obviously distraught by the ordeal. He is an impressionable young thing, no doubt. In time, Fisk is certain he can more than make up for whatever the brooding man in black has given him. He needs only to be patient.

But first, to rid himself of the nuisance that is Sir Francis.

* * * * *

Matthew hasn’t said one word. Not one word. Frank is uncertain why it nags at him, but it does nonetheless. He busies himself honing his already pin-fine dagger, dragging the rock across its edge, purposefully re-dulling the blade if only to sharpen it again. A thin curtain poorly conceals the outline of the Prince as the servants undress him, the filmy material drifting away, revealing a lithe silhouette, long and lean and muscular. He is covered with a simple linen robe just before the servants pull the curtain back, excusing themselves with a bow and exiting, the ornate drapery and mask of Cernunnos in their arms.

Frank waits until the covers are slid back on the bed and the Prince disappears between them, just the rigid outline of his shoulders and head peeking out, before entering. He recalls his last duel--it was with a man named Forien. He was not a knight or a noble warrior. In fact, he hadn’t seen a day of battle, judging the sloppy way he handled his sword, throwing it about his head, completely lacking in form or technique. He had been frightened. It was not a fair fight, and one that Frank had begged his King to let him bow out of.

Forien had attacked a man whom he claimed raped his sister. At some point in the drunken tussle (no one was really sure how) he ended up with a blade embedded in his gut and died sometime later from his wounds. Forien claimed self-preservation, which was a weak defense at best and a blatant lie at worst. Instead of sentencing him to a swift and relatively painless death by beheading, the King had ordered him to defend himself against a knight of his choosing. Knowing he hadn’t a chance of surviving regardless of his choice, Forien picked Frank. He knew the end at least would be swift.

Frank finds his bed--a patch of rug with a single pillow on it--and slides down to the floor. The breeze blows in from the window, causing the single torch on the wall behind him to flicker gently. Shadows cast themselves left and right on the stone facade on either side of the gauze-covered bed. Every now and again Frank swears he sees the undead, gaping faces of the men he has killed.

Perhaps the Prince doesn’t realize that a duel means “to the death”. It’s implied, in a way, in the very name of the deed. Perhaps if Matthew understood the possibility that this could be the last night Frank spends on this very floor, staring up at the closed eyes and angelic expression of his liege, his student, his ward…

Frank peels off the layers of leather, reaching for the clay bowl on the table behind him and the rag draped on it. He douses his face and neck, swiping away the smudges of dirt and grime from the morning’s practice, dampening the dark grey frock that is the last scrap of cloth remaining on his top half.

Forien might not have been a warrior, but he fought with honor. Instead of dropping to his knees and begging for a swift and merciful death, he lunged just as the order was given, swinging the all-too-heavy, all-too-dull roman blade over his head with a shrill cry and launching himself Frank’s direction. In return and out of the deepest respect, Frank had swung true with all the strength he could muster. Forien’s head had come clean off, bouncing only once onto the sandy earth, a spray of blood soaking the ground and his body tumbling down after.

Matthew had not been there that day. The King of Casper had spared his son--and Frank--that fate. Perhaps he had spared him too much.

Frank’s gaze flickers up to the face of his Prince, his eyelashes lying smoothly along the ridge of his cheeks, his breath evenly paced and far too serene to be a product of actual sleep. Frank lets out a little huff and a grin, sweeping away a stray tendril of reddish hair from his face. “Goodnight, my Prince.” He turns over, punching the tiny pillow into place in the crook of his arm and studying the way the shadows dance on the wall as he sinks down into his place on the floor.

It is only moments later that the Prince starts snoring softly, his right arm tumbling off the edge of the bed. Frank feels the delicate fingers splay lifelessly across his left shoulder and squeezes his eyes closed tight, steadying his breath. When a weak push fails to slide Matthew’s hand off the bulk of his bicep, he sits up silently, returning the Prince’s arm to him, reverently placing it at his side, over the finely knit blankets.

But gods, does he look like an angel. Frank stares down into his genuinely sleeping face, mouth parted slightly, skin warmed by the glow from the dying torch light. Perhaps, just this once…

Frank allows himself to pretend, if only for a moment; to let the world drift away until all that remains is him, his Matthew, this room, the warmth of the flickering flame. He pretends that it is he whom the Prince is betrothed to, not some overgrown tyrant, and this is their home, their castle, _their_ Kingdom. He hesitates, his hand hovering so close to the Prince’s face that he can feel the slight bristle of unseen hair as he studies every curve and line, drifting down the slope of his nose and ghosting over the cupid’s bow of his lips. His Prince. His King. His everything.

He leans in, ignoring the canon-ball that settles in the pit of his stomach, his mouth parted slightly. What it would be like to kiss those lips. What majesty and power a kiss like that would hold.  His breath warms the space between them as he levels his mouth over Matthew’s. The Prince lets out a moan beneath him and Frank slams backward, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, wadding a hand into the pillow beside Matthew’s head so hard his knuckles turn white.

Breathlessly, he watches the Prince’s expression for any sign of conscious thought, but the redhead drifts back down into the pillow after a quick smack of his lips and the soft snoring resumes. Frank steels himself, shoulders relaxing, gazing down into the face of an angel he is not worthy to share the same space with let alone dream of having for his own. Fuck honor. Fuck propriety. He would gladly cast it all down at his feet if Matthew but asked. His mouth drops open once more, the hand that is not twisted into the pillows coming up to form a crescent around his beloved Prince’s head like a halo.

HIs death hangs in the balance. Frank could leave this earth happily, gladly, knowing he had but once touched Heaven. His nose brushes against Matthew’s, earning a happy moan, and Frank suddenly feels his pants grow tight, his base instincts taking over for what his heart cannot express. He curses it inwardly, running the tip of his nose--one that has been broken too many times to count--along the ridge of the Prince’s.

He comes back to the pouty pink lips beneath, sweeping his bottom lip over the underside of Matthew’s, stifling a sharp gasp when he feels a set of long fingers curve around the back of his head and pull him forward.

“Mmh--!” Frank supports himself on his elbows as he pulls back, but is unsuccessful in breaking the Prince’s hold. The resulting force only serves to shove their mouths together, the warmth of their skin and solid press of their noses causing Frank’s knees to buckle. His stomach flips and he wrenches free, dragging the stubble of his chin across Matthew’s cheek.

When he pulls away,  his eyes slam into the wide-open pools of brown that stare up at him,  the pearlescent irises dancing wildly in the light. Matthew’s mouth parts and he draws in a shuddering breath, retracting his hold. His quivering bottom lip glistens with wetness. “I...I’m...Frank, I’m sorr--”

The world falls away as Frank surges forward, the knot in his stomach turning into a ball of flame as he crushes their mouths together, burying his hand in his Prince’s feather-soft hair,  gathering it up into a powerful fist and wrenching his head back to the pillow, chasing the taste of his own lips upon Matthew’s.

Gods be damned, but he tastes like a field of a thousand wild berries and Matthew is kissing back and the war-hardened Knight can scarcely believe it, a desperate and pathetic groan eeking out from somewhere deep in his throat as he collects him in his arms.

“Frank,” Matthew sighs into his open, wanting mouth, dragging his arms across his back to pull him in tighter.

“My Prince...” Frank’s reply is muffled between ragged breaths. He slams a hand to the board behind Matthew’s head. He feels as if he would sink to the floor and dissolve into a helpless puddle if not for the strong arms that hold him up.

They finally come up for air an eternity later, exhausted and laughing breathily, hands in each other’s hair, chests sealed together, smiling against one another’s mouths. “I love you,” Frank confesses as he dips down to Matthew’s shoulder. “Gods strike me dead, my Prince, but I do.”

“I know”, Matthew murmurs. “I-I don’t know how I do, but I know it.”

“Forgive my insolence.” Frank presses his forehead to the back of the Prince’s hand, and Matthew’s eyes flutter closed as his tears wet the skin. “Punish me as you see fit.”

Matthew strokes the tight black curls atop Frank’s head, chuckling in spite himself. “And how should my Knight be punished? Hmm? For such an unforgivable crime as this?”

“I do not know.” Frank open’s the Prince’s pliant fingers to pepper little kisses on the pad of his thumb. “Even death itself would seem a relief as of now.”

“Well, that simply will not suffice as torture, then. I suppose you will have to suffer alongside me for the rest of our days.” Frank lifts his head to gaze into Matthew’s glittering eyes, squinting momentarily as it occurs to him just what he’s saying.

“Would that please my Lord?”

“More than anything.” Matthew barely gets the words out before he is tackled onto the overstuffed bed coverings as his mouth is wrenched open by a desperate, eager tongue. He giggles despite himself, dragging his Knight up on to the bed with him by the tails of his undershirt, fingernails dragging over the impossibly hard muscle of his back.

Frank growls happily, nudging their noses together. “I happily accept my fate.”

“You had better,” Matthew mutters with a playful punch to his ribs before his expression melts into a scowl. “However, this does not excuse you from having accepted that horrid duel.”

“I will win, my Prince. Make no mistake.” Frank kisses his knuckles with fervor, over and over and over again, his mouth exploring every inch of bared skin, trailing up to his elbow and skipping to his neck, his clavicle, under his ear.

Matthew lets out a delighted hum, shifting to his side and sliding backwards to allow Frank to spill into the space beside him, the warmth of their bodies causing a deep blush to rush to his cheeks. There in the circle of his arms, protected and safe and complete.

Frank is going to win tomorrow, for in this moment he has no doubt in his mind that he has more reason and purpose to continue living than any other being on the earth.

They fall into a heavy sleep whispering promises and worshiping the contours of each other’s bodies in joyful defiance of whatever tomorrow might bring.

* * * * *

The Ruins of Adbam are over seven centuries old and the scene of Frank’s knighthood twenty-two years prior. The crumbling structure was once witness to countless ritual sacrifices, by a superstitious people who built towering pillars in a crescent shape and placed a large slab in between.

The current King of Casper is a realist who sees little need for the spiritual but allows it all the same, understanding it plays an integral part of the fabric of society. The site is used mostly for ceremonies such as Knighthoods and Oaths of Office now, but occasionally the ground is anointed once again with blood: courtesy of Casperian prisoners, outlaws and enemies.

Frank finds it a fitting death scene for the hulking rival Knight.

Sir Alexei is no mystery to Frank. King Fisk is not being overly boastful when he says Alexei is a ruthless and precise killer: Frank has seen his handiwork for himself on the battlefield. It was not long ago that Lutania had first made an attempt to invade Casper-- they did so at great cost of lives on both sides. Alexei had created a stir among even Frank’s blood-thirsty troops--carrying around the severed head of Frank’s second-in-command and drinking ale from it as the blood and the brain matter poured out.

“He was walking with a bit of a limp a few days ago,” Luke offers, lifting Frank’s shoulder guards over his head and strapping them into place. “Favoring his right leg.”

Frank nods, inspecting himself in the mirror of polished amber. He slides a second knife into the heel of his boot and fastens his scabbard to his belt. He stops Luke from adding a layer of chain mail to the already cumbersome armor. “This is enough,” he explains.

Luke hesitates. “The man is easily two heads above yours.”

“It won't matter.” Frank carefully inspects the edge of his sword, turning it over in the dim morning light. He runs his thumb over it lightly, nodding his approval when it splits the skin and blood gushes out to trickle down the bright steel. “He is a brute, a slow moving ship. One hole in his hull will be enough to bring him down.”

“Maybe. But what if he sees fit to give you a “hole” first?”

Frank shrugs. “Then he will not have the chance.”

* * * * *

Matt lifts his head to the sky, taking in the smell of earth and ozone in the air. “It is going to rain,” he murmurs. Lord Franklin, who is seated directly behind him, places a firm hand on his shoulder and Matt is grateful for his good friend’s presence.

“It’s going to be alright,” he assures him. Matt responds with an unconvinced grunt, tugging at some loose skin around his thumbnail as he twirls it in his mouth. “Sir Francis knows what he is doing.”

Matthew only wishes he could set directly beside him, but that honor belongs to his father and his fiancee, respectively. Franklin is not biased in any regard, and would report the battle--no matter how dire the scene--with truth and honesty.

“You look ravishing yet again today,” King Fisk murmurs in his ear, taking liberty to coil his hand around the velvet gauntlet of Matthew’s tunic. He fights the urge to withdraw, pursing his mouth tightly instead and shifting uncomfortably in the throne that has been carved out of the ancient rock.

“You are too kind, my Lord.”

Fisk leans back, reclining to the point that his arm is touching the Prince’s and Matthew is suddenly wishing he still had the mask from the night prior to hide his disdain. “Perhaps, my darling, we could disperse with the pleasantries? After all, in less than a week’s time we will be getting to know each other on a rather...intimate...basis.” He fingers the hair at the nape of Matthew’s neck in disgustingly familiar fashion.

Matthew’s stomach is suddenly threatening to eject his breakfast, but he swallows harshly and murmurs “And what does my Lord suggest?”

Fisk shrugs, sliding his large, calloused hand down Matthew’s leg. The Prince bites the inside of his lip, drawing blood. “Only that we...explore…the possibilities. Why wait for our wedding night?” Fisk’s breath is hot in Matthew’s ear and it’s nothing like Frank’s from the night before. It is a carefully orchestrated move designed to seduce, to conquer, to control.

“Forgive me, your Lordship,” Matthew murmurs, promptly sweeping the wandering hand away. “But I am deeply religious in that regard.”

Fisk lets out a deep growl beneath his breath but doesn’t push the issue, returning his hands to his finely clothed lap. “I see. I only seek to accustom you, my Prince.” Fisk turns back towards the dull murmur of the gathering crowd as they pour in, adding through a mock-sigh “After all, would be a pity to see you shaking like a leaf as you writhe on the end of my cock.”

Matthew stiffens upright, nearly coming out of his seat, his mouth dropping open as he prepares to deliver a harsh reprimand. He is interrupted by the shrill blast of battle horns as the warriors stride onto the field, greeted with a roaring fanfare from a thousand voices.

* * * * *

As Frank expected, Sir Alexei struts out like an overconfident cockerel, both hands thrown wide to reluctant applause, letting out an animalistic roar. He is dressed from head to toe in gaudy silver mail, a steel horn mounted on the top of his ornate helmet, directly between his eyes. Frank has to work hard and not rolling _his_.  Alexei’s massive hands clamp down on twin damascus steel axes, slicing them through the air dramatically.

Frank is up next, and it is little surprise that the crowd perks right up, a thunderous sea of fists pumping and cheers exploding, ushering him into the semi-circle of ancient stones. He proceeds with little attention to the fanfare, his eyes shifting up only briefly to the red-clad Prince who seems to be clinging to the pillar beside him like it’s the only thing holding him in his seat. It matters little if Matthew can sense it or not; Frank bows low to the gravelly earth, so close his head nearly touches it, his right fist crossed over his heart in reverence. “For Casper. For the King.” His heart suddenly thuds out of rhythm as he adds, “For My Prince.”

“Frank…” he could swear he hears his voice over the rising wails of the crowd. He lifts his gaze, the early morning sun burning white-hot into his field of vision as the seven-foot demon strides towards him, heavy footsteps shaking the earth, teeth bared in an evil grin.

“Come, Little Farmer!,” the beast taunts. “Show us the might of your pathetic mountainside town!”

The knave flies the colors of Casper in a flag shaped like a dragon’s tongue, colored gold and red and green. Frank’s gloved hand goes for the hilt of his sword as the flag drops to the ground, and the horned berzerker charges forward with a gurgling roar.

In one swift motion, just before the deafening clamor of steel colliding midair, Frank's feet leave the earth in a swirl of dust and gravel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank fights for his life. Matthew receives life-altering news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene written from the picture is NOT IN THIS CHAPTER YET...keep looking for it! Things are changing as I write. Luckily for me, this story seems to be writing itself. I really hope you like it. <3 I love you all

_ Hours earlier… _

Fisk studies the fog as it rolls over the fields outside the bedroom window. There is little difference in the natural aesthetics of Casper and Lutania; both kingdoms collide with The Great Sea over the Eastern Cliffs. They share the same rainy Spring and frigid Autumn, though Lutania receives the brunt of the snowfall in the Winter. It will mean a very easy transition for his people; the two domains share the same food and many of the same customs, making an easy choice of which bordering kingdom to invade first. After a few subtle warnings, the weak-willed Casperian King had practically thrown his only son into Fisk’s arms . Casperians (and the Prince, no doubt) will be better off in serving a strong, decisive leader with an obvious plan and purpose. 

“My Liege” his footman announces, slipping in just as his breakfast is being presented. He bows deeply and slides the heavy curtain away from the door as the mail-clad Knight enters. “Sir Alexei.” 

Fisk nods and the towering man comes forward, bending his head to keep from hitting the lintel above. He takes a knee at the bedside of his King, kissing the ring of the hand as it is extended out to him. “My Lord.” 

The servants share wide-eyed glances before retreating backwards, bowing as they exit. They look relieved and glad to be leaving. An entertained grin pulls at the edges of Fisk’s mouth. He gives the footman a dismissive wave. “Bolt the door behind you,” he commands. 

The heavy thud of an iron lock sliding into place concludes the presentation. 

“Now,” Fisk begins as he stabs his fork into a piece of egg and brings it to his mouth. “To business. I presume you already know what is expected of you this morning.” 

Alexei nods, his silver eyes leveling with his King’s under a heavily furrowed brow. “Of course.” 

“It is of highest import that you make it appear accidental. Unfortunate circumstances occur even in the friendliest of bouts, and I am relying on your prowess and experience in battle to make that happen.” 

Alexei nods. “You will not be disappointed.” 

“Good.” The King takes a sip of tea before adding, “Of course, there is no reason to rush. Give the people a good show; it is the least we can do in return for their...magnanimous hospitality.” 

The giant’s brows quirk upward, the eyes beneath glittering with mischief. “Of course.” He rises with a final bow and bangs his knuckles once against the heavy wooden door. It opens with a groan and he shares a secretive grin with the King before disappearing through the doorway, one massive hand fixed on the hilt of his sword. 

* * * * * 

_ Presently... _

It sounds as if the earth is cracking in two when Frank’s sword meets the axes that are crossed over his head. His biceps scream against the massive weight as the face of the giant drags his frothy grin between the blades. “Ready to die, little famer?” 

A distant thunder rolls. With a sharp grunt, Frank throws him off and Alexei stumbles back, the scales of his plated armor creaking sharply together, heavy boots shaking the ground as he finds his bearings. The crowd is eerily silent, every breath held back, wide-eyed faces staring over the carved stone precipice. Frank pays them little attention. He cannot afford distraction. 

He waits as the horned knight tosses his head like a caged animal and Frank circles around him, eyes locked onto his target, twirling his sword in one hand as if it is a feather. Alexei surges forward again with a deep hiss, and Frank easily side-steps him, alloting him all the space he needs to wear himself down. 

A heavy blade zings past his left shoulder, colliding with the stone rubble of the pillar behind him before bouncing to the sand below. A gentle rain begins to patter, hitting the padding of Frank’s leather armor and rolling downward. “That was foolish,” Frank announces. “You now have only one ax remaining.” His feet cross over one another and it seems as if he is floating just above the ground as he doubles back around, keeping a steady distance between himself and the hulking knight. 

Alexei lunges again, this time slicing the air beside Frank’s ear. Unencumbered by the weight of steel plates, the leather-clad knight tucks himself under his raised arm, rolling away. Alexei lets out a frustrated bark. “I don’t recall you being so fast,” he growls. 

“I don’t recall you being so talkative.” 

Alexei feigns left, and Frank overcompensates, jumping back in genuine surprise when the giant lunges in his direction, cracking the handle of the ax down onto his arm. The Frank grits his teeth together, pulling back. His sword slices the air, landing out into nothing and Alexei laughs. “Out of practice I see?! You gotten soft, sir Francis.” There is a stinging sensation and something warm and red spills into his eyes. The dull edge of the ax must have connected with his head at the same time as it the handle had his arm. He smears it away with a gloved hand, shaking his head to force himself back into focus. 

“First Blood to Alexei of Lutania!” The knave announces. 

Both warriors have retreated back to their separate sides of the circle, Frank’s eye burning with the blood that rolls down into it, Alexei with a smug grin plastered on his face. Frank doesn’t waste any time delivering his rebuttal--a dagger lodged in the opening between Alexei’s neck and shoulder blade causes a ribbon of crimson to shoot out and Alexei roars. The crowd has begun to cheer; a clear sign of whose side they stand on. 

A sudden crack of lightning flashes in the sky above their heads and the rain begins pouring down heavily. With a grunt, Frank wrenches his blade out with a kick to the heavy plate of armor on Alexei’s chest. He lands in mud that cakes the ground, the dagger still clenched tightly in his hand. The ax comes down in a resounding crunch, catching the buckle on Frank’s boot but nothing more. Frank utilizes his opponent’s crouched position to bring his knee into the man’s face, reveling in the sound of splintering bone. 

Alexei backs off, casting off his helmet to fully reveal the foamy snarl underneath. It lands in the mud, his reflection warped and melting as the rain slides down. “I remember the taste of your General’s brain,” he offers. “I wonder if yours will taste as good.” 

Frank lets his sword fly, a whirl of flashing steel and black leather, his powerful muscles clinging to the damp hide and showing off every curve, every ripple, every bulge. His blows come one after the other, neither slowing down nor letting up until it slips beneath the crook of the second axe and one flick of Frank’s wrist sends it clattering to the ground. 

Alexei captures the sword between his metal gauntlets just as Frank thrusts downward, leveling his toothy smile at him before wrenching it away. His pauldron slams into Frank’s clavicle, and heels digging into the mud do nothing to stop him as Alexei drives him backwards into the stone. A lone voice cries higher and louder than the collective shrieks of the crowd. A dull splintering sound couples with searing agony in Frank’s ribs. His back connects with the wall, effectively knocking the air out of his lungs.  

The realization dawns as the hard blows rain down; Alexei wasn’t planning to use his blades against him. He’s going to use his fists. Frank slips down, using the slickness of the rain to assist him, sliding between the beast’s parted legs. In a matter of breathless seconds, he gathers the short knife at the man’s boot and drags it across both legs with a roar. 

His blood spills out like water, filling the wet sand and pouring out of the gurgling giant like a sieve. Frank stumbles backward as the demon hits his knees, a crimson river parting the mud as it fills the circle. The dagger still clenched fast in his hands, Frank curls his arm around the man’s jugular, dragging the blade across with a growl. A sharp sensation resounds in between his rib bones as he pulls away. It is only then he notices the small blade stuck fast in his chest. He stumbles backward, staring down at it in disbelief.

That one voice--shrill and resonant and terror-stricken--peels out above the rain and the roar and his own conscious thought. He staggers back, the rain now soaking through his armor as the body of the colossus collapses behind him, a final pathetic rattle ebbing out from deep within his chest. 

Frank raises his eyes to the soft patter of the rain, clearing them with a slow blink. His Prince is straining against the two bodies that hold him back, his robes flying as he fends them off. “Matthew,” Frank murmurs as his legs fail him and the world goes silent, the pain fading into peace as sight and sound fade away and he falls, weightless. 

He lands backwards into strong, warm arms the size of tree trunks, a familiar deep voice hushes in his ear “It’s done, Frank. I’ve got you.” 

He tries valiantly to keep his eyes open, to stay awake. He needs to be on guard. To keep watch over his Prince. The thought of the filthy hands of that ogre of a man holding back his Prince, his Matthew...He groans and struggles to sit up. A wide hand presses firmly to his chest, coiling protectively around the dagger protruding out of it. 

“Do not worry. I will resume your duties over his Majesty,” Luke promises. “Only rest now.” 

Frank opens his mouth to protest, to tell Luke he is well. A muffled “Mhh” is all that comes out before his head lolls back, resting into the massive chest. Luke is a good friend and an honorable man. He consoles himself with this thought as the darkness creeps in, seeing as he is helpless to stop it anyway. The world fades to black amidst the shocked, horrified hush of the crowd. 

* * * * * 

“Do not  _ touch  _ me!” Matthew hisses, throwing off the hand that crushes his bicep. He pushes past the sea of bodies, snaking his way through the semi-circle and out onto the soaked arena. 

“Your Highness,”  he hears to his left. The sound of rattling metal tells him this is most likely a guard. “The field is soaked with rainwater and--” 

If the guard is concerned for the cleanliness of his raiment, he can have it. Matthew casts his tunic off at the sensation of fingers dragging against the sleeve. He sloshes through a foot deep pit of mud, the tinny smell of blood assaulting his nose. He makes his way towards the figure carrying his wounded Knight, his fingers reaching out to explore the damage. “What has happened? Is-is he alright? Is he breathing?” 

“Barely,” Luke murmurs. “My prince, I’m going to get him to the doctor. You should--” 

“A carriage,” Matthew mutters breathily before slamming his head in the direction of the guards at the opening of the circle. “My carriage! NOW!” 

He follows swiftly after the knight, exiting the battleground as they are joined by the clamor of armored soldiers who fall into line and clear the way. Luke slides the lifeless body of his fellow Knight into the open door of the waiting coach. He attempts to close the door before the Prince can board and Matthew tears the door open wide, throwing a threatening glare his way. “My Liege, I really don’t think--” 

“Scoot over,” Matthew growls, and the sulking knight reluctantly obeys. With the swift crack of reigns, the carriage peels off over the hills at record speed, disappearing out of sight of the stunned crowd. 

* * * * * 

The King approaches cautiously, sharing a reluctant look with the youthful door guard. He steps aside with a bow and the door groans open, revealing a dimly lit inner chamber crammed with dusty books and half-melted candles. His son is half-seated, half-laying across the prone body on the table. He hears a soft patter and catches a glimpse of dark red liquid steadily dripping into a metal basin underneath the slab, already full to overflowing. He swallows sharply and closes the distance between, hesitating for a moment before softly patting Matthew’s shoulder. Matthew jerks upright, producing a wet sniffling sound before dragging his sleeve across his eyes. “How is he.” 

Matthew shakes his head, his slender fingers poised on edge of the blood-soaked sheet. Frank is covered up to his collar-bone, his sleeping face colored in patches of deep purple and red. A thread of dried blood runs from his cracked lips. 

“Your majesty,” says a hushed voice behind him. The King turns to see an elderly woman, her curly red hair quickly fading to a white halo around her head. She holds a cracked leather book in her hands. Nodding to the door, she murmurs, “a word.” 

Frank is fighting for his life. Regrettably, this is not a new situation for the seasoned veteran. The King had heard of the young military hero who had been flying through the ranks, winning battle after battle, sometimes single-handedly, without regard to his own life. He Knighted him right away, but was so impressed by the passion and the principles the young man possessed that he was determined to spare him ever having to fight again. At the age of 23, he had escaped death more times than Knights twice his age. The King saw an opportunity and took it, placing his 12-year-old son under the watch-care and the guidance of the most capable, trustworthy hands in the kingdom. He understood, of course, that Sir Francis was not be thrilled with the arrangement at first. He hadn’t expected it to be any other way--you don’t tear a man from blood and battle and the glory of war and expect him to be whole and functional. The King knew that as much as his young son needed a stern guiding hand that Frank needed something, too, something the little future King could provide. Friendship. 

He draws a shuddering breath before rejoining his son. He is glad, for once, that Matthew cannot see his face. He is unaware of the tears that assault his eyes. It is killing him to watch his son have to go through this: Frank is so much more than a simple guard to him, and even the King is not blind to that. 

“Did you send him away?” Matthew asks, a bitter tinge to his words. 

“As you reque--as you commanded, yes.” The King had half a mind to run Fisk through then and there with his own sword, regardless of whether or not he had a hand in this (though the King is fairly certain he had)  The engagement had died along with the murderous rampage of the Knight in Gray. 

Matthew’s gaze is glued downward, his lanky fingers reaching up every so often to sweep across Frank’s eyelids, over his nose and underneath to test his ragged and uneven breathing. 

He purses his mouth closed tightly, blowing out a long-held breath. “He is going to declare war.” 

“Do not concern yourself with such thoughts,” the King begs, drawing his hand around his son’s shoulders and squeezing tightly. “Send prayers to Ares for Sir Francis’ speedy recovery.” He tries to add hopeful inflection in his voice, but it comes out feigned and weak. 

“He has much to live for,” says a voice from the darkness. Luke sits perched on a heavy shelf, arms crossed over his chest. “Until he is ready to resume his duties, my Lord, I will take watch over the Prince. With your permission of course.” 

The King nods. “Of course, Sir Cage. I would be grateful.” 

“--don’t need watching over,” Matthew mumbles under his breath, absentmindedly smoothing the sheet that falls over Frank’s shoulder. 

Luke and the King share a look. Luke nods. 

The elderly woman hobbles through moments later, collecting the bowl underneath the table and replacing it with an empty one. She dips her fingers in the dark fluid, swiping her tongue across in an experimental taste. She shakes her head with a grunt and shuffles away. 

* * * * * 

The first sensation to return is pain; it begins with a searing heat in his sternum and spreads quickly to his lungs, then his legs until his entire being is aflame. He tries opening his mouth to scream, but it comes out as a pathetic sputter, and he wrenches his head to the side, sending blood and sputum onto the pillow beneath his head. 

A body jerks awake beside him, and a soft hand strokes his forehead, slicking the sweat away. “Sssh, Frank. It’s alright. I’m-I’m here.” 

Frank moans weakly, turning into the touch. When he is able to open his eyes, he stares up into the pearlescent glow of Matthew’s, his face illuminated by the yellow glow of the candles. 

“‘Bout time,” comes a familiar grumble. Luke struts forward and grins down at him. “Did you finally get bored of dreaming and decide to join us back on earth?” 

“Something like that” Frank murmurs. His fingers find Matthew’s and he offers his hand a gentle squeeze. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“On the contrary” Matthew offers. “There is nowhere else I  _ would  _ be.” 

As Frank adjusts to the agony his body is currently in, Matthew and Luke take turns catching him up. He has been out for the better part of a week, and it feels like it. Frank hurts in places he didn’t even know existed. After learning how to sit up without losing the fluid in his stomach, he begins eating solid food again, trying to ignore the pathetic, helpless feeling that gnaws away at him. Every morning, Matthew helps him dress, averting his eyes out of propriety instead of necessity. The afternoons begin with simple walks down the hall, or as far as Frank can go. He is surprised by the sturdiness of the redhead, who is a few inches shorter than him: the arms that he is used to steadying are now steadying him on the occasional falter, which Frank swears off under his breath as the unevenness in the damned floorboards. “When did you become so strong?,” he murmurs. 

“When someone refused to make the way easy for me.” Matthew replies. He slides his arm around Frank’s back, his fingers lingering momentarily around his ribcage. Frank forgets how to breathe for a few seconds. Every touch that should hurt feels only like healing when it comes from his Prince. 

Matthew insists on Frank sleeping in his bed. The first night, after sending the servants out, Matthew had plucked a single pillow from the plush coverings. Frank watched with a quirked eyebrow as Matthew threw it down to crawl on top of the rug on the floor beside the bed. “What are you...doing?” He perched himself on his elbows to stare incredulously down at the Prince. 

“Going to sleep,” Matthew had said matter-of-factly. “Which is what you should be doing.” 

Frank stammered for a bit before finally finding his voice. “M-my Lord, I cannot allow you to--” 

“Oh, silence. You cannot pull your own breeches up yet let alone get off the floor.” 

Frank fidgeted with the too-soft coverings as he felt the heat rise to his face. “Well...My Prince...would you join me, then, on the--?” 

“Not possible,” Matthew answered without hesitation. “I move around far too much for that. I could re-injure you.” He turned over with that, punching the pillow into the crook of his arm and settling down into it. “Goodnight, Sir Francis.” 

“M-My Lord--” 

“I  _ said _ , goodnight.” 

It isn’t until the fifth day that it occurs to him to ask about King Fisk, though he is fairly certain he already knows the answer. The time of the wedding is drawing close, and yet there is no talk of celebration. The ferns that had been draped across the castle’s many winding staircases in preparation for the event have been transplanted to the side-gardens. The tailors and shoemakers that should be bustling around the Prince like a hoard of bees are nowhere to be found, and courtiers and servants alike seem relieved and on-edge at the same time.

Frank greets his image in the reflection of the gazing-pool of the dressing chambers. It feels so good to be back in his old clothes again--the black tunic doesn’t fit quite as snugly anymore, but at least with his sword secured to his side, he is beginning to feel like himself. “Ready to resume your duties?” Luke approaches, absentmindedly straightening the high collar of Frank’s vest. 

“Not yet.” Frank tightens the laces of his leather gauntlets and runs a hand down the overgrown stubble and deep cuts of his face. “I am not in a position to defend his Majesty in the case of an attack. It’s not just a matter of being able to swing a sword around. I must look the part as well. I am yet only half the man I need to be for him.” 

Luke’s secretive smile reflects in the water behind him. 

Frank raises an eyebrow. “...what?” 

Luke shakes his head and turns on his heel, casting his gaze out into the expanse of the room. “Oh nothing. It’s just that...if you were to ask him, I’d think the prince would disagree very much. If you don’t mind me saying so, I think you are  _ all  _ the man he needs.”

Frank feels the knot in his stomach again, the one he feels whenever he thinks or talks about the Prince, or hears someone mention him in passing. Or when he looks at him. Or when he’s not looking at him. He thanks the gods that his healing bruises are still dark enough to hide the heat that floods his face. “Is it that obvious?” 

A deep chuckle resounds in Luke’s chest. “If you have to ask that, I think you already know the answer.” 

“Suppose so,” Frank muses, feeling a bittersweet grin tug at the edges of his mouth.

* * * * * 

They stop by the edge of Lake Curdoy to let the horses drink. The late afternoon sun glistens on the rippling water and seeps underneath the layers of Frank’s tunic. It is becoming easier to breathe as the days go by, and he takes advantage of the crisp spring air, scented with budding lilacs and apple-blossoms. He folds the reigns and watches as the Prince dismounts, Luke’s horse letting out a dismissive knicker and trotting around him. 

“Now where do you suppose he’s going off to?,” Luke muses.

“Skipping rocks, most likely.” 

“Rocks?” Luke repeats, incredulous. 

“I’ll have you know, Sir Cage, that I am the foremost rock-skipping Champion in all of Casper,” Matthew pipes up. His bat-like hearing is as intimidating as it is impressive. He bends down as the placid water laps against the shoreline, plucking up a particularly smooth stone and sending it flying with a flick of his wrist. It skates across, landing feather-like: one, four, eight times before splashing under with a plunk. 

“Child’s-play,” Luke dismisses playfully. 

“Truely?” Matthew spins on his heel, a hand planted on his hip. “Well, I invite you to a challenge then, good sir Knight.” 

Luke slides a look towards Frank who gestures to the shoreline. “You stepped in that manure all by yourself. You’d best defeat him now, lest he becomes a power-mad tyrant like his father.” 

“Very well,” Luke grumbles “Though I confess none of my training has been specializing in...rock-skipping.” He takes little time picking his weapon: a boulder the size of his hand. He flings it with a mighty grunt and it soars straight into the air, the sunlight blocking out its path. Matthew turns Frank’s way, mouth dropped open as if to ask where it went. Seconds later, the stone plummets down as fast as it had gone up and explodes into the middle of the wide lake with a thunderous splash, drenching the horses, who whinney in surprise. 

The three dissolve into laughter, with Frank biting his lip hard to stifle his voice and save his ribs. 

“I surrender!” The Prince exclaims, clutching his chest dramatically and falling to his knees. 

“My Lord,” Frank chides, his voice laced with seriousness “The ground is no place for your Majesty.” 

Matthew’s eyes flash towards him with a mischief gleam. “Truly? Now I have two disobedient subjects. You are lucky you are an invalid, Sir Francis, or I would have to challenge you as well.” 

“Why don’t you then?” Frank is feeling especially giddy today (perhaps it is from the pain tonic the old apothecary prescribed?) and jumps down off his horse against his better judgement, wrapping a firm hand around the Prince’s bicep. He pulls him up easily, mostly because Matthew is in no way fighting. They laugh in spite of themselves and the sudden closeness in which they find each other, their giggles giving way to breathy silence, the scent of Matthew’s bathing oils fluttering up to coil their way around Frank’s nose. 

Luke rubs the back of his neck with a gloved hand. He gathers the three sets of reins and gives each a gentle tug. “I think I see a nice patch of grass over there, so…” His voice trails off and all Frank hears is the crunch of his boots becoming more and more distant along the shoreline. His chest is getting tight again, cutting off his air as he gazes into the brushed-gold eyes of his Prince. 

“I...I almost lost you,” Matthew whispers. His hand tugs at the high collar of Frank’s vest and Frank swallows sharply. 

“I never would have left you.” Frank draws his hand around to the small of Matthew’s back, feeling the gentle press of his slender waist against him. He brushes his thumb against his cheek, holding it there to tilt Matthew’s lips up to his own. He draws his bottom lip in, capturing it between his teeth and silently delighting in the little gasp it produces. 

“Gods...Frank…” Matthew’s arms draw tightly around his neck, and soon Frank is backing him up into the nearest tree, hands everywhere, dragging the Prince’s filmy top out of the waistband of his trousers to ruck it up over his tightly clenched stomach. He flattens his palm against Matthew’s belly, listening to his swift breath in his ear and lathing his open mouth with his tongue, wet and silken and frantic. Soon, the Prince is following suit, giving Frank’s tunic a solid tug, freeing the skin of his back, skittering those slender fingers and sharp nails over the taut muscle. Frank bucks almost angrily between his legs as leafy shadows dance over their forms. 

For that moment, Frank finds relief. Here, in the circle of his Prince’s arms, the fiery pit burning hot in the center of his soul is simultaneously quenched and set free. He gathers a fist of blood-red hair and wrenches Matthew’s head back, nipping feverishly at the skin stretched over his jawline. He dips his hand between the Prince’s legs, giving the hardening bulge a firm squeeze that earns a bitten-off cry from deep within Matthew’s throat. The words are dragged out of him by sheer desperation:  “ _ Marry me _ .” 

“Wha--?” Matthew’s eyes flutter as if his mind is trying to catch up with what Frank’s mouth is saying. He pulls his head away, gasping for air. “What?” 

“ _ Marry me,”  _ Frank groans, flattening the Prince to the solid trunk of the mighty oak.

“But...Frank...you know I can’t--” 

“Yes. Yes you can. We can.” Frank squeezes his eyes tight, dragging his wide lips across Matthew’s again. He struggles weakly to break the hold but wherever Matthew goes, Frank is there, chasing the taste. Never has something felt so right in his life. “I don’t care who you wed.” He releases Matthew’s perfect cupid’s bow with a soft “pop” only to pepper kisses down his throat, setting his teeth down possessively on his adam’s apple and squeezing the impressively sized cock that is trapped in his pants. “I don’t care where you go, who you fuck. Just marry  _ me.”  _

“Yes,” Matthew chokes out, jumping into Frank’s arms. Frank lets out a small hiss as his elbow digs into the healing blade-wound. “Oh, gods. Sorry--Yes. Yes, Frank. I will marry you.” 

The slightest whimper escapes Frank’s throat among a shaky, ragged breath. He pulls away to search Matthew’s red-rimmed eyes, his own not much better off. “Yes?” 

“Yes.” 

They hold each other amidst a barrage of kisses, arms wrapping around tightly to the sound of  leather creaking against leather. “My sweet Prince,” Frank murmurs in his ear. “My darling, my love. My fucking life.” 

Matthew lets out a soft laugh, exploring Frank’s face, bucking his nose against the side of his cheek, caressing the stubble. “You have such a way with words.” 

The sudden patter of hooves approaching over the hill behind them cuts the happy meeting short, the pair sliding away from each other as they turn towards the sound. Luke must have heard it too, because his head peeks over the horizon as he doubles back around to rejoin the group. 

“My Lord!” A breathless knave charges toward them on a road-weary horse, jerking the reins and coming to a halt mere inches in front of them. “M-My Prince! You are needed at once!” 

Matthew surges forward.  “Wh-what is it?” 

The boy makes out his words through heavy gasps of air. “The - King - my - Lord…..Your -  father...he...he is dead.” 

“Dead?” The Prince’s eyes flutter, reeling, his mind obviously failing to wrap around the thought. “Wh-what?” 

Luke grabs the knave’s tunic, nearly hauling him down off his animal. “You’re certain? If this is trickery, boy, there’s no court in Casper ‘twill save you!” 

The boy shakes his head vehemently as Frank struggles to hold Matthew upright, the Prince having staggered backwards into his arms. “No! No trickery, M’Lord! I swear! The King’s been poisoned! Please, Sire, I am to bring the Prince back at once!” The frantic look of the frightened child is enough to convince the hulking knight and he nods his head, shoulders falling as he releases the boy. The knave digs into his pocket, producing an enormous garnet ring: the King’s. 

“Tell your masters we shall bring the Prince presently,” he murmurs, slipping the ring to Frank for inspection. The boy gives him a sharp nod and whips the reins, disappearing back over the hill the way he came. 

Matthew brings a hand to his mouth, gasping a sharp intake of breath, steeling himself. His eyes burn for the span of a second before his shoulders fall, cold tears glittering in his eyes and his expression falling stoic. He straightens his back as Frank takes his right hand, slipping the heavy stone onto his middle finger. He cocks his head slightly, his distant gaze staring questioningly towards Frank. “Your Father’s,” Frank confirms. 

Matthew bites down on his bottom lip, giving him a sharp nod. 

The two knights convene in his path, Luke helping Frank to drop to one knee before their leige. 

“The King is Dead,” Luke murmurs, his eyes planted firmly to the ground. 

Frank swallows sharply, pressing his forehead reverently to Matthew’s outstretched, shaking hand. “Long live the King.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final installment of this fic. Matthew buries his father, discovers the culprit, and makes (or breaks?) his tumultuous relationship with his personal Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, so, couple warnings here, folks. 
> 
>  
> 
> *There is a bit of a torture scene. I try not to get too graphic but, yeah. It's a little graphic.
> 
> *There is a big ol' gratuitous sex scene!!! Enjoy!!!
> 
> *This is it! This is what this whole fic has been leading up to! The scene portrayed in the fan art is the very last scene of this chapter. I sure hope you enjoy it!
> 
> *The end is a bit of a cliffhanger, but I want everyone to rest assured that they don't die! Okay??? :) I will not be adding any more chapters. Now, if someone were to, say...pick up where I leave off... (hint hint wink wink)
> 
> Thanks for being so patient with me!

_ The rain hadn't let up through the entire funeral procession. Regardless, throngs of faithful subjects flooded the streets as the hooded carriage made its way to Helgrath Hill, the place where generations of the Murdock Dynasty were interred. And now, at the mere age of fourty-seven, it was where Matthew would lay his own father to rest. _

_ Had Matthew been attending to his Office in the Palace instead of out gallivanting like a simpleton he might have been able to spare his father this fate. He could have demanded the Royal Tester take a second taste. He could have alerted the King’s advisors when the knave told him the Cook was out sick. He could have demanded to know what kept the usual cook from performing his duties. And his father was usually so careful. Matthew may even have been able to smell the subtle odor of the poison .  _

_ The doctors had assured him that it was a relatively quick death, but the poison had been slow enough to allow the Tester to deem it safe before passing it on to the King. That on top of the fact that the Doctors refused to allow Matthew to examine the body for himself told him that his poor father had indeed suffered. With his last gurgling breath, the King said “Tell my son I love him”, something Matthew knew full well. Whomever had done this would dearly pay.  _

_ Frank had excused himself from the procession; the details of whatever his Knight had planned for the substitute cook was not something Matthew wanted to dwell on. _

_ The foremost culprit is currently imprisoned in the dungeon awaiting interrogation. He knows his Knight will get to the bottom of this-whatever it takes-and right now, Matthew could care less how he goes about getting there.  _

Luke doesn’t approach him until the last mourner leave, and even then it’s with practiced stoicism. Nevertheless, his presence a welcoming comfort. His thick hand lands sturdily on his shoulder, but Matthew barely feels it for the bitterness that numbs him right through to his soul. “My King,” Luke murmurs. “You will catch a cold.”

Matthew’s cloak is nearly soaked through, the heavy drops that land pattering a steady rhythm on the hood draped over his head. “Leave me,” he murmurs. “For just a moment. Please.” 

“For just a moment,” Luke conditionally agrees before marching down the soggy hill. 

Matthew steps carefully over the freshly-dug earth to place a hand on the cold, wet gravestone. He traces each word as a shiver runs through him. “I will not rest till your killers are brought to justice.” He lets out a shuddering sigh, bowing low in the wet soil to press his forehead to the rock. “This is my solemn vow. And father? I...I love you too.” 

The awaiting carriage opens its doors as he makes his way down. He makes out the looming figure of the faithful Knight standing guard beside it and gives him a dutiful nod. “Thank you for waiting, Sir Cage. It is time we head back now. There is much to do.”

“Indeed.”

Matthew steps in, casting his head towards the hill one last time as they pull away. He touches the glass panes as if he could reach through them to find his father's hand waiting on the other side and draws in a shaky breath. He must be strong. The time for tears is over. There is a storm brewing in the Southern sky,  and it smells of blood and steel.

* * * * * 

Frank would be lying if he said he didn't yearn for the throbbing ache of overtired muscle and the sheer exhaustion that comes with delivering due justice. He runs his tongue over his chapped lips, licking up the thin spatters of blood sprayed there. He stretches his neck out--first one side, then the other before cracking the whip again. It lights over the flayed back of the cook, whose screams have long since drowned in his own fluids and now come out in little less than foamy gurgles. 

“We’ve taken your fingers,” he reminds him as he lets the whip down again and the wall in front of him is bathed in red. “I suppose next we can start on your toes.” 

“No! Gods no, please sir have mercy! I’ve told you everything…!”

“Doubtful,” Frank spits, doubling the whip in two and throwing about the man’s neck. “You see, you have yet to deliver a name.” He straddles the man’s lower half, wrenching his bound body unnaturally backward, his biceps firing and veins popping as the man eeks out a helpless wail beneath him. “I promise to make your death quick, if only you will give me a name.” 

Frank is highly skilled in the art of torture; it has served him well on more than a few occasions. Rather than tiring him, the persistence of the cook is only serving to wear on his patience. He backs off when his victim’s lips turn blue and his head begins to loll, allowing just enough slack on the cord of twisted horse-hide for the prisoner to suck in a few pathetic scraps of air. The bloody nubs that are left of the man’s fingers skitter about the board underneath, searching for purchase with digits he no longer has and coating it with blackened blood. 

“I have barely begun to sweat,” Frank growls, leveling his bared teeth in the man’s ear. “It will yet be days before I tire.” 

“F--Fisk!” The prisoner scrambles out at last between sharp, dry gasps. “King Fisk ordered it!  It-It was not meant to kill the King, only...only to serve as a warning!  To--to make him ill!”

Frank quirks an eyebrow, absentmindedly touching the patch of dressing underneath his tunic. “And what did he promise you in return?!” 

The man collapses against the rotted slab of wood, shaking and sputtering and sucking in gasps of air that sound like dry heaves .“S-Seventy thousand pence.” 

Frank snarls in disgust. “Little less than a year’s wage, for the life of our King.”

The whip uncoils and Frank tosses it to the ground in disgust, hurling a wad of spit at the cowering captive’s back before turning to the iron bars of the cell. He brings one fist down with a resounding “CLANG”. The helmeted guard across the way lifts his head. “Bring me a hot iron,” he commands. 

“Wait--wait, no...you said you’d end it!” 

“And indeed I will.” Within seconds, a searing hot piece of steel passes through the bars at him and he wiggles on a thick, long glove. The crooked hook at the end glows yellow and white and he inspects it, giving the guard a satisfactory nod. “But first, you’re going to give me the name of your conspirators.” 

“Con--conspirators?” The man’s head jerks around, his face contorted against the bloody board beneath and twisted in clear agony. “B-but Fisk gave the order, and--” 

“You would have me believe that King Fisk himself would speak to you, a lowly kitchen rat? He doesn’t know the names of his own advisors, let alone even notice the Help. So, again, I ask you…” He levels the sizzling iron to the man’s face, the glowing poker hovering dangerously close to the man’s left eyeball. “...the names.” Something akin to justified vengeance swells in his veins as he presses the rod in, reveling in the scream and the sizzle and the putrid smell of burning flesh. 

* * * * * 

Matthew sinks down into the in-ground tub--the rose petals gather around his knees as if they’re performing a water ballet and their fragrance dulcifies his rattled nerves. It is hot and the steam licks at his aching back as he sinks down, belly clenching slightly against the febrile waves. It pushes out a contented, tired groan as he buries himself in the silky foam and the scent of meadowsweet. 

“Anything else, Your Majesty?”

Matthew waves a dismissive hand backwards at the waiting servant. “Leave me.”

“Your Majesty.” The servant shuffles backwards, his voice muffled into his chest as he bows. Matthew’s shoulders drop instantly as the doors groan shut. He lolls his head back, hair tickling the sides of his face when he sinks down ever further.

Another bitter sigh escapes his throat as the day’s events flood back into his mind, tears threatening to rise to the surface of his eyes, stinging and hot. He bites them back. There will be time for mourning after, when his father’s death and that of the Taster’s are avenged. 

_ The thoughts are coming in now, faster and varied and one right after another they assault the damp/quiet/peace/stillness. The Taster’s widow, a woman with a tight, high voice that was warped with anguish had all but collapsed in his arms at the opening ceremony. He had stood, stone-faced and pious, as he delivered to her the last of the man’s pay plus three hundred thousand pence. She hesitated, and Matthew could sense it in the way that she plucked it from his outstretched hand that she was debating in earnest it might be worth it to throw it right back in his face. Matthew would not have blamed her for it. Instead, she clutched the meager earnings into her bosom and replied with a robotic word of gratitude as she left.  _

_ Matthew recalls the gargled wails of the stand-in cook reverberating up from far below the earth,   following him everywhere he went. Even more trying was the knowledge of just *who* was the cause of his torment. He had practiced stoicism--even indifference--knowing full well that those around him did not hear the pleas, the muffled cries for a gracious mercy that would never be granted. It had become too much during a dreaded discussion of the upcoming Coronation. (Matthew wanted terribly to hold it off, but his father’s advisors (now, his advisors) had insisted it would raise the morale of the people) A particularly shrill scream shattered his train of thought and sounded as if it were coming from directly behind him. Matthew balled up the parchment in front of him with both hands (he presumed it was a design for the Crowning that had been submitted for his approval, but the great buffoons had so obviously overlooked the fact that he cannot *see*) and tore it into shreds before casting it down at his feet on the floor.  _

_ “So, no purple drapes then?” one advisor had so stupidly asked.  _

_ Matthew flashed a glare her way, but a deep voice behind and to his left said, “You forget, my Lady. His Kingship is--” Luke hesitated here”--partial to red.”  _

_ “Oh,” she murmured. “Of course.”  _

Now, Matthew sits alone in the confines of his bathing quarters, a cool breeze blowing in through the open window, sending goosebumps up his arms. He hangs his head in his face, and is free to do so for the first time since the horrid day had begun. 

The heavy iron latch on the outside of the door clunks against the solid wood as the hinges groan open, and Matthew quickly straightens his back, regaining his regal facade. “I said leave me,” he grinds out behind his shoulder. 

The figure standing in the doorway barely shuffles backward. “Well, I’d best be going then, your Highne--”

“Sir Francis?” Matthew says, and it’s part surprise, part relief as he turns in the water. “I...I’m sorry. Please stay. I thought your were the servant.” 

The heavy boots shuffle forward, and Matthew is surprised for a moment that the smell that greets him is not one of cinder and blood and steel, but that of soap and freshly conditioned leather. “You have not called me that in a long time.” 

“It’s been a long day.” Matthew relaxes back into the comfort of the warm suds, then adds on afterthought, “For both of us.” 

“Yet another thing that surprises me,” Frank offers as he takes a knee, perching himself at the very edge of the bath. He hesitates before sweeping a wet tendril of hair from the King’s eyes and tucking it behind his ear. Matthew’s eyes flutter closed as he turns into the touch, the calloused fingers lingering to cup the size of his face. “On any other occasion, you’d be issuing a formal reprimand for brutalizing one of your subjects and never letting me hear the end of it.” 

“This is no  _ subject _ ,” Matthew replies, a bitter tinge to his tone. “This is a traitor and a murderer. I take no joy in it, mind you. But, it needs to be done.” A wide thumb makes its way across the corner of his mouth to pinch his bottom lip, drawing it downward gently. 

“My way is never merciful,” Frank reminds him. He bends low, his lips hovering over Matthew’s, his gentle, tired breath warm against Matthew’s face. 

Matthew closes the distance, surging forward that little bit, pressing their mouths together and rendering a moan from the Knight. The water sloshes a bit in the large in-ground basin, licking his skin which has been chilled by the open air. 

“My King,” Frank utters between huffs, pressing his tongue inside, lapping up the taste.

“Please, Frank, not here.” His elegant fingers coil around to the back of Frank’s neck, pressing him down a little further and reveling in the brisk scratch of stubble against his cheek. “Here, when it’s only us, I am just Matthew.” 

Frank’s kisses grow in passion, each slightly more frantic than the next, growing in desperation as he reverently tries the word on his lips. “ _ Matthew… _ ” 

A wide hand brushes across Matthew’s collarbone, the thumb flicking across his adam’s apple before dipping beneath the surface of the water. It covers the expanse of his chest, skirting across the fine dusting of hair there before calloused fingers find a hardening nipple and give it an experimental tug. Matthew jerks upright, separating their mouths with a resounding  _ pop _ . “Frank!” The blooming bud is still being held captive, and the Knight lets out a dark chuckle. 

Frank’s attention turns to Matt’s ear, capturing it in his teeth and pulling gently downward. “I only wish to please you properly, My Lord.” 

Matthew feels his face flush. The water covering him has clouded the sensation of exactly just how exposed he really is. Most of the foam has dissolved by now, leaving only the occasional petal to pathetically attempt hiding his nakedness from Frank’s wandering eyes. A healthy glow rests on his cheeks as Frank continues downward, and Matthew is not sure if it’s his own thudding heart he hears or that of Frank’s. 

A hand wraps mercilessly around his hardening length and Matthew lets out a bitten-off cry. Frank’s mouth is still in his ear, hot and coaxing, those wide, soft lips circling around as he gives him another little squeeze. “Ssshhh….hush now, my love. You don’t want to alarm the guards do you?” 

Matthew bites his lip and shakes his head even as his breath hitches and his stomach muscles clamp down over his shallow breaths. “MMh...no.” 

“Have you ever touched yourself here, My Lord?” Frank’s thumb flicks out over the bulbous head, sending a pleasured pang rocketing through him. His head flies back, hitting against the hardness of Frank’s chest as another roaming hand finds its way to down. “Have you ever stroked yourself off to the thought of me?” 

The heat now beams down on Matt’s face, because of course he has--in the dead of night, with Frank snoring softly on the floor beside his bed. He tosses his head, throwing his distant stare in the direction opposite Frank and the Knight chuckles softly. Matthew licks his lips as the pressure around his shaft increases, his hips arching upwards, the natural response being too strong to hold back. “Have...have you ever..?” 

“Have  _ I _ ever?,” Frank repeats breathlessly, trailing teasing bites down his arched neck as his seconds hand cups Matthew’s testicles, giving each a playful tug before drawing them up under his impressive length and squeezing down. “My darling, I never fucking stopped.” 

“Mmgh--” Matthew gives each hand a weak-hearted attempt to peel them away as his breath hastens and his back arcs, the pressure and heat building to a palpable flame. “F-Frank, stop…” 

“Say it again, My Lord,” Frank grounds out, his arms only wrapping tighter around him, the pace of his hand speeding up. “Command me to stop. Beg me to.” 

“Stop! Frank, please...I-I’m going to--”  He launches up out of the water as his climax courses through him, his seed flowing out in heavy spurts under Frank’s masterful touch, convulsing as the torrent overcomes his senses. His legs scramble against the bottom of the basin, searching for purchase against the slick surface and he lets out a frustrated whine when he finds none. 

Frank’s arms are hauling him backwards, up out of the water before Matthew can even recall which way is up, collecting him into a plush robe on the cold stone tile and attacking his mouth. Matthew shivers, his fingers running the length of Frank’s jaw, returning the taste of his tongue to him as he rides the aftershocks. “Gods...Matthew...my Prince, you’re beautiful…” 

Matthew’s cheeks are furiously hot with embarrassment. “Why...why did you do that?” A sense of guilt gnaws at him. “I told you I was--”

“I wanted you to,” Frank groans against his collarbone. His knotted fingers press so hard against Matthew’s spine that it sends sharp spasms through him. Pushing back only results in the solid arms crushing their chests together as he holds him there, wet and shivering, every synapse of his being firing with the oversensitive sting. “I wanted to see it. Gods, have I wanted to see you like that for the longest time. To bring you to the heavens with my own two hands.” 

“S-stop, Frank. You’re going to get your bandages wet.” Matthew stifles an embarrassed chuckle as he finds his bearings, and once Frank releases him he wobbles to his feet, drawing the robe around his shoulders. “Send for the bath servant.” 

Matthew’s feels Frank’s brow furl underneath his splayed fingers. “You have no need for a bath servant. I am here. I will tend to your needs.” 

Matthew bends a knee across his manhood as he feels a wandering hand flutter down between the folds of his robe. “That’s not the need that currently requires tending to, good Sir Knight.” His mouth twitches upwards into a grin as Frank hesitates towards the door. “Rather, I require  _ your  _ assistance in my chambers.” 

He can almost hear the raised eyebrow in Frank’s tone. “Your...chambers?” 

Matthew swallows sharply, his stomach fluttering with nervousness and anticipation as he nods. “Yes, Sir Francis.  _ Our  _ chambers. That is, if you feel well enough….After all”--Matthew pauses here, gathering his courage in one sharp swallow--“I am King now, and you must do as I command.” 

“O-of course,” Frank says softly. “My Lord...you are sure…?”

“If you stall any further, I may likely die from the cold!” Matthew’s voice glitters with mischievousness. 

“Right.” Frank nods sharply, yanking the door open and retrieving the first servant that passes by, pulling him into the chambers without any warning. The servant lets out a startled yelp as Frank tosses him towards Matthew, grunting out, “Help his Highness get dressed.” He disappears around the doorway with no more than that and the door closes with an abrupt BANG. 

Matthew bites back the grin that is tugs at his mouth.  

* * * * * 

Matthew has held off as long as he can, though even he had not been sure just what he’s been waiting for until now: Kings, Princesses and courtiers alike have vied for his affections with little success to show for it. Sure, he has been betrothed more times than any other monarch on the Four Continents, but he’s always found a way out of it, whether purposefully or by circumstance. Matthew wonders if he has always known, somewhere way down deep...

There is an unequivocal surge of power that comes with having Sir Francis Castle, Killer of a Hundred Men, groaning and whimpering and helpless as a kitten beneath his touch. Matthew’s tongue finds the silken underside of Frank’s manhood, tasting the leather and the smoke and Frank’s own scent as he follows the ridge downward. Matthew’s stomach flutters as it takes him longer than expected to find the hilt, and he can’t quite close his fingers together over Frank’s massive shaft. “Gods,” he squeaks out, equal parts impressed and hesitant for what something that size could accomplish in the deed to come. He wonders what other mouths have been down here, how many other sets of hands have roamed over the rigid bulge of his abdomen to gather the mound of hardening flesh beneath. The thought burns him, and he gives Frank a jealous tug, setting his teeth down on a veiny patch of skin that has already been wetted with his saliva. 

The knight surges forward, a growl rumbling from deep within his chest, fingers tightening into the plush pillow beneath his head. “Fuck! Matthew…” 

“Oh, sorry!” Matthew’s hands fly away but Frank clamps his down over them, returning them to the impressive rod that springs up between his legs and keeping him there. 

“No, no it’s...it’s okay. It feels...fuck, it feels wonderful.” 

Matthew lets out a contented moan, his hands relaxing as he continues to explore. He pushes his knees underneath of himself as he latches on, swallowing as much of Frank into his mouth as he can manage and delighting in the helpless sob that eeks out of the dark Knight’s throat. Frank’s head slams back against the headboard, fingers knotting into the back of Matt’s hair, his hips pushing forward in pathetic little thrusts. 

The calloused fingers skirt down Matthew’s back, across the bulk of his shoulders, to his spine, then dipping into the curve of his back and rounding off to squeeze a handful of his well-muscled ass. “Mh!” Matthew can’t manage Frank’s name, but he lets out a small, muffled squeak that reverberates along Frank’s shaft, earning a breathless hiss. 

The crush of smooth skin under Frank’s palm becomes a soothing caress as the other hand disappears, followed by the sound of fumbling fingers on top of the stand beside the bed. Frank shifts as if he needs to stretch further to reach whatever it is he’s trying to grasp and Matthew whimpers a little at the loss of suction, sliding Frank out of his mouth and licking wet strips of spit up and down his slick cock. When the hand returns, it is impossibly slick and smells of fragrant oil. 

Matthew tilts his head Frank’s way. “What is that?” 

Frank’s reply is quiet, almost sheepish. “Lavender oil.” 

He stiffens a little, feeling the heat return to his face. 

Frank hesitates, pulling his hand away and if Matthew didn’t know better he could have sworn the knight was blushing, too. “I uhm...I that is...if, if you’re not ready…” 

“I am,” he bites off the end of Frank’s sentence, giving his testicles a firm squeeze as if to back up his point.  

Frank jumps with a nervous laugh, and Matthew settles back down when the hand returns to draw little wet circles around his ass-cheek. “Come...come here.” Frank is now pulling Matthew up further with a firm tug, and the new King follows out of curiosity if not boldness, straddling Frank’s hips as his face is collected into Frank’s dry hand, Matthew’s newly awakened erection resting on Frank’s thigh. Frank’s nose bucks against his cheek, their lips connecting with a breathy kiss, goosebumps alighting wherever Frank touches. Matthew lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a stifled gasp when two fingers find their way to his entrance, the oil warm and wet in Frank’s hand. 

The pressure is intense. It hurts a little at first, the intrusion rubbing the tight ring of muscle raw as the fingers work their way inside. Matthew wiggles away but the fingers follow, snaking around the sculpted curve of his ass, changing position, pressing in firmly and working him open with an in-and-out-motion.

Matthew holds onto Frank’s shoulders, wrapping his arms around him even as Frank pushes him gently backwards, laying him flat against the satin bedsheets and overstuffed blankets. “Gods, Matthew. My love. My King...so beautiful…” Frank’s words are barely coherent now, uttered between Matthew’s neck and collarbone as his weight comes over top of him and he fits his hips between Matthew’s, one arm curving upwards to raise Matthew’s leg, rutting himself into position, crushing Matthew’s stiffening cock in between their bellies and pressing in against the unwilling little hole between his asscheeks. 

Matthew bites off a cry, his eyelids fluttering closed as the pressure intensifies. 

Frank continues his coaxing, gentle kisses, sweeping a thumb across Matthew’s parted lips and sweeping his tongue across them. “Ssssssh, sweetheart….relax.” He draws Matthew’s head up, pressing their foreheads together and moving forward with a deep groan. 

For a second, Matthew is convinced he is being wrent in two. He digs his toes into the blanket, likening it to lying on a beach where the blankets are sand, willing his body to relax in response to the pressure. Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain subsides and he is filled to completeness with the hard, pulsating muscle. He stifles a weak whimper, all discomfort gone, an explosion of sheer pleasure glittering up his spine as Frank begins to move inside of him. Their bellies brush together, the soft dusting of hair between them only serving to increase the friction on his own member. Matthew’s statuesque legs wrap around the solid trunk of the Knight’s waist, completely overcome by the newfound ecstasy.

He trails his fingers along Frank’s face, feeling the contorted expression of sheer bliss as he forces the wind right out of his lungs. 

Suddenly Frank hits upon something deep inside Matthew, sparking the unquenchable fire and tearing a ragged gasp from his lungs. “Gods! Frank…” 

With an authoritative growl, Frank wedges a fist between their stomachs, wrapping it around Matthew’s throbbing manhood, stroking it to match the rhythm of his thrusts. “Yes, Matthew. My King...come for me…”

Pressure builds even with Matthew fighting against it. He doesn’t want to. Not yet. Everything feels so right and he has been waiting too long for it to end so suddenly. “No, Frank. Stop. Please.” He forces his hand away even as Frank’s hips speeds up, pummeling him into the bed with a frustrated groan. 

“No,” he mewls pathetically. Matthew’s hands are collected up over his head, the muscled knight pinning them down without warning or permission and returning to his cock with the other. “Going to make you come. So many times, my love. As many as it takes.” 

Wiggling away is an impossible feat with a two-hundred pound man on top of him and a cock drilling into him, and Matthew lets out a frustrated whine even as his body arcs into the touch, the cock battering against his prostate as Frank’s skilled fingers rub his dick raw. He cries out with a full-body shudder as his seed releases, splashing in between their bellies and coming out in thick spurts to spatter against the bedsheets. 

“Theerrre,” Frank purrs, capturing Matthew’s dropped-open mouth, shifting his hips even closer to bury himself to the hilt, pressing in further, invading his walls as both their cries are joined midair by the soft slap of skin-on-skin. 

Matthew wants so badly to reprimand his disobedient subject. Anger and indignance swell in him even as his spent muscles flutter contentedly. His head drops weakly between his biceps and any sound he makes in protest comes out in half-hearted moans. 

He traces the contours of Frank’s abdomen, running his fingers reverently down the knotted muscle and uneven scars, skirting carefully around the large patch beneath his right breast. Frank is grunting over him, his face buried in his chest, his breaths coming harsher as he speeds up. Matthew bucks upwards in response to the strengthening blows, until at last he lets out a sharp grunt, shuddering over him, his legs spasming as his fluid leaks out around his cock still buried deep inside. “Fuck….” 

He falls into the circle of Matthew’s arms, skin dewy with sweat and shuddering. After catching his breath, he says with a soft chuckle, “Does this mean you’ve made an honest man of me now?” He nuzzles Matthew’s sweat-soaked pectoral, running his stubble along the underside of his breast as he settles his head down. 

Matthew lets out a sated hum, absentmindedly stroking the wet locks atop Frank’s head as his cock softens, still locked inside of him. “I don’t know if that could ever be accomplished,” he murmurs with a secretive smile. His eyes flutter closed to the thrum of Frank’s slowing heart rate as exhaustion wins over, lulling them both into a deep sleep. 

* * * * * 

The loud clatter of steel on stone assaults Frank’s dreamless slumber. He jolts upright, instinctively reaching for the sword he’d propped up by the side of the bed, eyes flying open to dart about the room. He finds a shuddering knave standing among scattered fruits, a flattened metal tray and a shattered flask of wine that’s now saturating the stone.

The boy’s eyes seem about to pop out of his head with fright, his hands raised over his mouth in horror. “I---I’m so sorry, m’Lord--I---” 

Matthew has awakened and is now sitting upright alongside his Knight, rigid as stone, tugging the sheets in around his waist. 

Frank is far too insulted to be embarrassed. “Look what you have done, you little fool!”

The boy quakes where he stands. “I’m a terrible klutz, my Lords, I’m--I’ll pick it up right away--!” 

“You will get out! Now!” Frank’s growl grows into a roar as he unsheaths his blade to bolt off after him. The skinny-legged servant lets out a frightened squeak and tears off towards the door, reaching the threshold just as Frank claws at his back. The resounding SLAM shudders the chamber walls. With a ragged sigh, Frank turns to nudge the food around with his toes. “Fucking child.” He reluctantly glances upwards, across the room to the new King, who is busy rubbing the bright glow of red from his face.

“He is not to blame,” Matthew murmurs, running his fingers through his thick auburn bangs. “After all, it’s not every day you see your King in bed with his personal guard…” 

Anger simmers in the pit of Frank’s stomach. He pushes it down, turning to the chair where his tunic and trousers are thrown. Unfolding the thick leather belt, he mutters “Lots of Monarchs take lovers. It is hardly anything new.” 

Matthew shakes his head, turning his face away from the sunlight that streams in through the windows. “But not a King of Casper. And certainly never with a Knight.” 

Frank lets out a grunt, trying in desperation to hide how very much those words sting. He hurries along with dressing; tugging on his trousers and stepping into his boots. “I see. I’m a simple peasant.” 

Matthew huffs, slipping off the bed but carrying the covers with him. “Don’t misunderstand me, Frank. The court sees you as the son of a farmer, but I--” 

“HUMPH--!” 

“But  _ I  _ know the truth.” A firm hand tucks itself in around his bicep and squeezes. Matthew’s distant gaze flits around Frank’s face, as if reading his aura. 

Frank ignores the way the soothing caress sends goosebumps up his spine. He chews on his bottom lip while jamming on his tunic and vest, pulling at the laces with unnecessary gruffness. 

“Here,” Matthew offers, his elegant fingers taking hold of the strings and intricately fastening them with little effort. 

Frank doesn’t want to let him. “I should be dressing you, M’lord.” 

Matthew’s soft laughter permeates the stillness as he answers in a near whisper, “It’s quite alright. I much prefer you being in charge of the  _ un- _ dressing.” 

Frank turns away before the words can turn into an ache in his groin, buckling his scabbard to his side. “I will send for your levee.” 

“Frank.” That same firm hold drags him back into unfolded arms. “No goodbye kiss?” 

Frank bites back a grin. “If your Highness wishes it.” 

“Mmm...I do.” Matthew hums happily, reaching up on his toes to press his soft lips to that of his Knight’s. Frank lets the kiss linger--savoring the taste of the kisses of the night before still fresh on his lips. He returns the favor, a bit harshly, dragging his mouth across with a soft hiss and reaching a hand to pull at the hair behind Matthew’s neck. He wrenches away just as quickly, eyes squeezed shut.  

“I’m afraid if that boy decides to talk, we’ll have much to answer for.” 

“Let me worry about that,” Matthew insists, jabbing Frank towards the door. “Now, fetch my Chamberman.” 

“Your Highness.” Frank turns with a quick bow, taking with him a tight smirk, the lingering taste of their kiss, and the scent of Lavender oil. 

* * * * * 

The distant trumpet blasts alert every soldier to the rampart. It is a clear, cloudless day with a bright sky and a view that stretches on for miles. Black dots marr the distant hills and morph slowly into a small, well-decorated company of mounted men, fork-tongued flags flying, armor glinting in the sunlight. 

“So much for lingering peace,” Luke grunts a he leans over the front wall. He slides a knowing glance to Frank, who uncaps his flask and takes a long swig. “You seem uncharacteristically unconcerned.”  

None of them are really surprised: the death of one King usually calls for unrest with another, especially in the tumultuous period before the Coronation.  Frank has been preparing for this--for war, of any kind--as part of his duties. Casper has done well to befriend the neighboring Kingdoms, with few exceptions. Most see Casper as an agricultural and aesthetic resource: far more valuable as a trading partner than a conquered land. With one exception...and aren’t there always exceptions? “Fucking Lutanians.” Frank hurls a ball of bitter ale out from the side of his mouth. 

The gold-trimmed carriage with matching horses suggests only one thing, and Frank raises his fist in view of their Casperian trumpeter. The trumpeter nods and sounds out a long, hollow blast from the horn. The archers take their places along the wall, within seconds, bows drawn back and arrows aimed. 

“Frank,” Luke grinds out between his teeth. “Think before you give that command.” 

“I _am_ thinking.” Frank’s fist still raised high, the sound of the gut-strings and creaking leather resounding like a hushed chatter on either side of him. He is thinking, in truth. He is thinking how easy a victory it would be to do away with that garish monstrosity and secure Matthew’s Kingdom-- _their_ Kingdom--from his ruthless, vile hands. He is thinking of those enormous hands all over his precious King, touching, groping, _fondling_ _HIS Prince. HIS lover!_

_ HIS! _

“Frank--!” Luke’s murmur becomes a hiss and he grabs a fistful of Frank’s tunic, balling it in his wide hand and giving him a firm shake. “Think! If you do this...you will be waging war with Lutaina. Even if you manage to kill Fisk--and that is a huge “if”--the neighboring Kingdoms are sworn to seek retribution. You know this! Casper might have the manpower to ward off a single attack, maybe even two--but to defend ourselves from Kingdoms on all sides? Think of the danger you are putting our King in. If you will think of nothing else, think of  _ him _ .” 

Frank steadies his hand, his eyes locked on the advancing dots. A rider comes into view, emerging from the bottom of a steep hill and approaching faster than the rest of the entourage. Frank’s fingers slowly uncoil.

There is another short horn-blast from their trumpeter and Luke lets out a sigh of relief at the sound of strings loosening and bows lowering all around them. 

“I had best not regret this,” Frank warns. He turns on his heel, clutching his sword fast at his side to stalk off down the walkway. He needs to warn the others.

* * * * * 

Up until now, burying his Father was the hardest thing he’s had to do in his life. Up until now, he had assumed the worst was over. Matthew is marching down the winding staircase, into the bowels of the castle where it smells like old blood and centuries of damp, rotting corpses. He barely notices. 

He has approximately a half-hour before his father’s murderer reaches the castle gates. He is going to use the time appropriately. He tears open a rusty cell gate and the thing nearly bounces off its hinges as he struts inside, feeling along the wall and the amassed armour that hangs there. He finds the piece he is looking for--a breast plate with a slight waist and wide chest, scrolling with intricate decor. He has only used it in ceremonies before this: his father would not allow him to try his hand at jousting, though Matthew knows he could have “seen” better than any of his opponents anyway. Alot of it had to do with propriety; nobody wants to best a blind Prince (as if they would have gotten the opportunity anyway). 

The footsteps pounding their way down the stone steps makes him roll his eyes. He should have known he wasn’t fast enough to escape the gaze of  _ every  _ court member, especially so soon after receiving news of the advancing army. 

“My Lord--your Majesty!” The hurried voice of the elderly man echoes down the long hall of chambers. Percy is a gentle soul, one of his Father’s most trusted advisors (and obviously faster and more cunning than Matthew had taken him for in the beginning). “Your majesty, I must insist that you return to the Throne Room. King Fisk and his men are advancing, and--” 

“If he wishes to challenge me, he may do so on the battlefield.” Matthew plucks the heavy plate from the wall, pressing it to his breast. It’s a bit more snug than it was last year, thanks in part to Frank’s training no doubt. 

“We do not know if that is what he wants. Per--pehaps, he is here to once again offer his hand in marriage. If so, it’s an offer I must insist His Highness considers very closely.” 

“Marry that scum?!” Matthew has half a mind to hurl the hunk of metal towards the wavering Lord. “The man who is responsible for our King’s death? I think not!” He thinks better of it, gathering the backplate and hurriedly clasping the two pieces together. He struggles with the belt that binds them, and the old man steps in to help. Matthew doesn’t resist. 

“My Lord,” he tries again, his voice softer this time. “Please understand as of yet, a confession is all we have. A confession--I must remind you--that was gained through torture. I understand Your Majesty is wrought with grief, but we mustn’t move so hastily!” 

“He will pay,” Matthew grinds out, pulling away from the man’s outstretched hands. 

Percy lets out an exasperated huff, but Matthew has no time to argue. The gauntlets feel heavier than he recalls them being. The sound of his own beating heart drowns out the man’s pleas as he shoves them on and kicks open a nearby crate to retrieve the bottom pieces of his armor.

“Percy,” comes another voice, this one deeper and softer still, and Matthew snaps his head towards the doorway. “Leave us. Please.” 

Percy is probably placing all his faith in Frank being the voice of reason, because he hesitates for only a moment before shuffling out. “I shall wait for you both at Court.” he murmurs. 

The huge gate swings shut and Matthew hides his face as he swallows deeply. “Just what the fuck do you think you are doing?” Frank’s voice is even more frightening when it is soft, thinly veiling the torrent of rage that boils slowly to the surface. 

“How  _ dare  _ you--”

“Don’t try that authoritarian horse-shit on me right now,  _ Your Highness.  _ Especially not when my cock was buried so far inside of you last night that you could taste me in the back of your throat.” 

Matthew shivers at that, eyes blown wide with rage, mouth dropped open even as he stumbles backward away from the advancing Knight. His back hits the cool stone wall, the armoured chest plate falling to the floor with a heavy CLANG as Frank flicks the strap open. 

“You are thinking of going to battle,” Frank answers for him. He can practically  _ feel  _ Frank’s eyes boring holes clear through to the back of his head. “You are going to march yourself out onto that field and get yourself slaughtered alongside your armies. Is that it?” 

Matthew stutters silently, holding his own against the taller man as he chews on his words. “HE MUST PAY.” 

“Yes. Yes he will pay. I promise you that.” Frank pushes away, giving the new King some much-needed space to breathe again. Matthew’s shoulders sink as Frank plucks the armor from the ground, returning it to its rightful place on the wall. “But it will not be you that does the collecting.” 

“Frank,” Matthew growls, stepping forward as menacingly as he can muster, the iron grasp of the gauntlets feel clunky, the weight of them drag his fists downward. He throws them off with a defeated roar, the tears rising to the surface of his eyes finally spilling over, down his face. “GODS DAMN IT! It  _ has  _ to be me! I must do  _ something  _ to avenge my father’s death! If you think for even a moment that I am going to let you charge out there you are sorely mistaken!” 

“That’s not what I trained you for.” 

“Oh Christ,” Matthew scofs. He paws at the wall until he finds the ornate cabinet he knows is in the corner. If he remembers correctly, some of his father’s most cherished ales are stored here, and right now he could certainly use one. “You and I both know why my father hired you. He took pity on a poor farmer’s brat and thought his pathetic, blind son could use a babysitter.” 

“Don’t say that,” Frank warns. “Your father thought the world of you.” 

“I know that!” Matthew’s memory serves him well. He finds a tall beaker and yanks it from its place on the dusty shelf inside. The cork flies off with a loud POP. “Which is why it has to be ME that takes Fisk’s head. Not you! Not Sir Cage! Nor anyone else.” He takes a long swig, instantaneously regretting it as the ale pours down to his gullet, igniting a fire that Matthew could swear is burning him all the way through. “Now. Are you going to help me put this armor on or are you going to stand there gawking?” 

Frank says nothing, and Matthew’s senses pick up the sharp movements as he shakes his head. “You are going nowhere. You will stay here if I have to fasten you to the stretching rack.” 

“You insolent beggar!” Matthew throws the decanter across the room and it shatters into a million pieces. The stench of century-old ale fill the room. “I am your  _ King _ ! Or have you forgotten?” He crosses the room in two quick strides, closing the distance between them, chest heaving. “You will listen, follow and obey! THAT is your duty!” 

Frank’s breath comes fast under his nostrils, the silence telling Matthew more than words ever could. He smells like boiling blood and his heartbeat is pounding so hard and so fast it flutters like hummingbird’s wings. Frank takes one step forward, bringing his foot down on the shattered glass and launching it into his hand before Matthew can speak. He smells the fresh blood that oozes between Frank’s fingers and feels a sudden, hot slice and hears the tear of fabric. He falters backwards, dragging in a sharp gasp. Warmth spreads across his chest and down the folds of his tunic, saturating each layer. He wants to reach up towards the stinging sensation, to feel the wound that he knows lingers there and to feel how deep the cut goes. 

“Feel that?” Frank rasps. He shoves a leg between Matthew’s thighs, effectively pinning him back against the wall. Matthew falters against it, scuffing the intricate weave of his vest. “Does it hurt? Hmm? Does it burn? What do you smell, your Highness? Does it smell of death? Of your own mortality?” 

Matthew’s eyes flutter as heat floods his face, one hand on the arm that holds the glass shard, angling it away from his face. 

“Because what you feel right now is five hundredth of a percent of what you will feel out  _ there.”  _

“F-Frank…” 

“War smells like shit and death and disease. It feels even worse. It feels like a dead man’s bowels. There is no stringed music, no angelic choir to lull you into a deep sleep as your insides slowly become your outsides. If you are lucky, death will come quickly. But do not count on it. No, little Prince. Death rarely comes quickly. And I do not wish to tell you what they will do with your near-dead corpse as you struggle for every breath--” 

“WHAT, THEN?!” Matthew forces him back, pushing away with all his might as the hot tears continue to spill down uncontrollably. “What am I to do? Am I to stay here in the tower, desperately awaiting word from the battlefield like some despondent child? Praying, begging--for your safe return?!” He is shaking his head now, his whole body convulsing in a fit of anguish as he knocks the glass shard away, pulling his lover in tight with an iron grip. “No. It is a fate worse than death. I just lost my father. Please....I cannot lose you, too.” 

Frank hesitates momentarily before throwing his arms around Matthew, pressing his lips firmly against his forehead and gathering every solid inch of the man into his bosom, clinging to him as if his very existence depends on it. “Very well then.” 

“What?” Matthew angles his head upward as if to better read Frank’s expression. 

“My darling, there is nothing that matters as much as you do. Including my life.” Frank lowers himself to his knees in front of the new King, gathering both hands in his upturned palms and kissing them. “Whatever comes of this day, let it never be said that I didn’t love you, even unto death.” 

“Frank...what are you saying...” 

“I’m saying I will help you don your armor, my Lord.” 

Matthew swells a little, dragging in a long, deep breath before trying a small bittersweet smile. 

“And we shall meet him. Together.” 

“Together,” Matthew breathes. 

__


End file.
